I'm Burning,' I'm Burnin,' I'm Burning for You

I’m traveling now, and my next first date won’t happen until next week (big money, no whammies).  As such, I think it would be a good time to share a story that is maybe one of my favorite and most often-told date stories – literally, my hottest date ever with someone we should probably refer to as Ash.

Somewhere in the first half of my twenties, I used to frequent an establishment in Gallatin, TN called (now, don’t judge me) The Cowboy Saloon.  Seriously, please don’t judge me.  I was young, and it was a small town.  Plus, the owner of this place used to tour with a famous country music band, and there was always an amazing crowd of talented singers there.  Like most of the Nashville area, karaoke night was like going to a concert, the beer was cheap, and there were plenty of men to innocently twirl me around the dance floor.  Beneath this snarky exterior, I like to twirl. . . shocking. I know.  (Attention men, especially Portlanders - I hope you will realize that dancing is one of the easiest ways to woo women.  I know no woman that doesn't like to slow dance or be turned on the dance floor, even if that dance floor is in your living room, and you've been married for seven years, and even if you only use the same moves you used at your 8^th grade homecoming dance.  Really guys, understand that romance is the original Rohypnol; it’s a three minute investment of your time, and you don’t even have to exert much effort.  I promise it will get you so much farther than telling me about your interurban chicken coop or by putting some pomade in your cheesy-ass mustache).

So, one evening at this redneck dancing mecca, I notice a tall drink of water sitting at the bar, and in this small town, it is not common to see people in places like this that are strangers.  Let’s just say that the people that went to The Cowboy Saloon didn't Yelp.   For any Todd Snider fans, it’s kinda like the Devil’s Backbone Tavern.  For anyone not a Todd Snider fan, remedy that, stat!  So, Ash is sitting at the bar being all quiet and mysterious, and one of my girlfriends notices that I’m tossing glances his way.  Being the bashful girl that she is, my friend Elaine gets up from her chair with no warning, goes over to him, and says, “My friend over there wants to talk to you.”  Ummm, mortified.  I was just pimped out by a good friend at a place called the Cowboy Saloon.  I used to go to cotillions for crying out loud!  Mama would certainly hang her head in disapproval of this, and Memaw would have palpitations.  Fortunately for all of us, Mama and Memaw have been spared a lot under the ‘ignorance is bliss’ clause.

Ash comes to join our table, and we begin talking.  He was once a touring musician, playing drums with a famous artist that most people under the age of 60 would know.  I would drop his name here, but I would just hate for anyone to trip over it.   We end up chatting for a few hours, and of course he asks me to dance.  He’s a pretty good dancer, and my eyes start doing this twinkling thing that usually gets me into trouble, and I turn to putty.  Sometime around last call, he asks for my number, and if he could take me on a date next week.  I am excited, and impressed, and of course, I accept.  I’m also in a hurry to get out of there as quickly as possible.  It’s always best to get out of these places before the ugly lights come on –it kills the romance and no one wants to be that girl.  To meet a man in The Cowboy Saloon that has all his natural teeth, not even a whisper of a mullet, and who has traveled the world is more rare than finding a man that will pay for dinner on a date in Oregon.  Maybe Elaine isn't such a bad friend after all. 

Now, Ash has just moved to this area, and he’s unfamiliar with Nashville, so I offer to drive during our date (he did have his own car though, a Jeep I believe).   Also being unfamiliar with the Nashville area, he makes a call to the Loews Vanderbilt Hotel and gets recommendations from the concierge for nice places to take me to dinner.  I was young then, but even now, I would be impressed by the swagger involved here.   Unlike most of my little Northwest knuckleheads, he actually gives a hoot whether or not I might have a nice time on this date.  Oh, and then there’s the fact that he put in a little effort too!  He wore clean clothes, shaved, and stood up when I excused myself to the ladies’ room.  You know, the charming stuff that lets a girl know that you dig her.  What a novel concept, right?  He moves up the charm ladder another rung.  We have a very nice dinner at Midtown Cafe in Nashville where there is ambiance, a sense of romance, no sign of a handlebar mustache.  We also didn't have to wait in line for two hours in the rain to get a table because they actually take reservations.  Hint, hint Portland restaurant scene.

 

He impresses me with his knowledge of wine and music.   He’s also a talented carpenter, and he tells me about growing up in Northern California.  Maybe Mama wouldn't have disapproved so much after all.  Now, somewhere during dinner, there was a little, well . . . incident.  The linen napkin in our bread basket sort of hovered a little too close to our votive candle for a little too long, and it caught on fire.  This is not what got Ash his nickname, but I had no idea that Ms. Cleo was sending me a message.  He handled it perfectly though.  He simply and quietly picked up the basket, and stuck the burning end of the napkin into his water glass.  No fuss, no muss, no scene.  This man is all charm and sophistication!   He moves up one more rung.  I think at this point, I was so enamored that my eyes were twinkling like a Nudi suit.

 

After dinner, Mr. Freakin’ Wonderful and I stop into a Nashville honky tonk and listen to some music.  We have a blast, and he chats up the drummer of the house band during one of their breaks.  They know some of the same people.  His touring drummer story has been confirmed!  Up one more rung!  It all seems to good to be true, and it is at this point that our fairy tale goes up in smoke. 

I’m driving us back to Gallatin, and somewhere along the way, Ash asks if he can smoke in my car.  At the time, I was a smoker also, so I say sure.  He pulls out his smokes to light up while I’m driving us down a dark Highway 109, being as bubbly and as flirty and as twinkly-eyed as possible.  This guy is the cat’s meow!  At least until I look over and realize that he’s on fire.  Flames, real ones, are in my passenger seat.  Seriously, this guy has really set himself on fire in my car.  Flirting immediately stops.  Expletives replace the flirting.   This is not a scenario that I have prepared for.  

There was no way for me to pull over on the right side of the road, so I swerve across the oncoming lane into an empty parking lot.  Ash is EN FUEGO!!!!!!!  The car is still moving, and he leaps, head first, out of my 1995 Nissan Altima.  Against the pitch black backdrop of night, this is the most Steven Seagal/Leathal Weapon-looking thing I have ever seen.  Man on fire, moving car, screaming twinkly-eyed girl.  As a passer-by stops to help us, Ash is screaming to get his flaming shirt off his body.  This is not at all how I had envisioned the "undressing" part of things going.  The man who stops to help us works at the local hospital and says that these burns are serious, and he needs to go to the hospital right away.  Ash says he’s fine, and doesn't think he needs it.  He doesn't feel much pain at all.  This is because he burned all of his nerves, and he doesn't realize that his back looks like a forgotten campfire marshmallow.  I insist that I am taking him to the hospital immediately. 

As I’m helping him back into the car, we check him over for signs of road rash as well.  I was still going pretty fast when he took that header out of the passenger seat.   At this moment, both of us simultaneously realize that in all of the chaos, he lost control of some of his, you know, bodily functions.  So, to recap, he’s topless, half of him is cooked extra well done, and the other half is steak carpaccio.  Oh, aaaaaand he pissed himself.  I guess it’s too late to rewind back to talk of South American wines and slow dancing, huh?  I know that now is not the time, but I make a mental note that I am going to have to ratchet him back down a few rungs on this charm ladder after we make sure he’s okay.  Even though it is an accident, there must be some sort of deduction for self-incineration on a first date.  The ride to the hospital is a short one, and it’s during this time that he lets me know that he dropped his Zippo and it must have caught his shirt on fire.  Children, this is reason #597 not to smoke – run away Zippos can ruin an otherwise perfectly good evening.

At the hospital, he is taken back for treatment while I am left in the waiting room with his phone to call his parents in California to let them know what has happened.  First date, and I’m waking up someone else’s mom and pop to introduce myself and let them know what has happened to their son.  #Awkward.   A little while later, he gets hopped up on morphine, his pee pee pants get exchanged for a hospital gown, and he starts asking for me.  The morphine has made him very amorous, and he tells me and anyone else that will listen how sweet I am for bringing him to the hospital and how much he enjoyed our date.  Okay, maybe I’ll reconsider ratcheting him down after all.  Even if it is a drug-induced stupor, it is sort of cute. 

The docs let me know that the burns are so severe that they cannot treat him at this hospital, so he has to be transferred to the burn unit at Vanderbilt Medical Center.  He has second and third degree burns over 10% of his body, and he will need skin grafts.  Holy Balls.  Those Steven Seagal stunts are really quite dangerous!  I ride with him in the ambulance to Vanderbilt and stay with him through the night.  Over the next few weeks, I visit him in the hospital almost every day, and I bring him books and magazines to entertain him while he is healing.  His family doesn't come to see him, and he doesn't have any real friends that he can call in Nashville, so I am his surrogate family during this time.  

By now, my family and friends have all heard this story and are asking me horribly funny questions like “Do you think he still carries a flame for you?”  or “Do you think you will get burned out on him?” or “I guess your hottie really is a hottie.”  For weeks, I hear this crap (I guess it helps explain a few things about my sense of humor, no)?   There was great interest in the story, and it spreads like (God, forgive me for this) wildfire. I should have charged money to show people the charred passenger seat in my car, as that little show-and-tell was in high demand.  It seems that people doubted my tale until they saw the black burn marks in my beloved Altima.  For months, my Aunt Deanna would call me anytime she heard a song that reminded her of this story and play it for me or for my voice mail.  “Burning Ring of Fire,” “Eternal Flame,” “Well They Call me the Fireman,” “I’m Burning, I’m Burning, I’m Burning for You.”  This was the greatest hits on my voice mail for a long time.  I didn't realize that fire was such a recurring theme in all musical genres.  Trust me, Deanna was calling a lot.

It quickly became clear that our love was not meant to be.  After a few weeks, Ash had to go back to California to finish his extensive healing process, and my life moved on without him.  We part on relatively good terms, but seeing someone at his worst when you barely know one another can make it a little difficult to get back to that unicorns-and-glitter experience.  A month or so passes without hearing from him, and I notice an unusual charge on my bank statement.  It is a payment to a mobile phone carrier that I don’t use.  I call to inquire, and they tell me that its payment for a phone bill, and they give me the phone number associated with the bill.  It’s a California area code.  Wait, that’s the Burn Victim’s number.  The crispy little shit stole my credit card number while I was visiting him in the hospital!  What an Ash-wipe!!  I had once hoped for a second date that would start as magically as the first.  Now after the flames and the hospitals and the morphine and the stolen credit card and police report, I just hope the little fucker burns in hell. (Mama, please do forgive my language).