The spoon makes a god-awful sound against the bowl when I scrape at what's left of my chocolate pudding. It doesn't even taste good; I only ordered it because the diner is out of banana cream pie. But, scraping at these little specks of brown is the only thing I can think of to pass the time during the most horrendously awkward situation I've ever gotten myself into so I just keep on scraping.

The flyer for "JJ's Diner Wednesday Night Speed Dating" on the bulletin board at City Hall made this sound like a fun, new way to meet single women in Pawnee, but that was highly misleading.

Jean-Ralphio Saperstein, Pawnee's answer to the cast of the Jersey Shore, is the only other guy I see here, and the average age of the women who've shown up is probably seventy-three.

I've been avoiding any form of communication since the first woman I'm supposed to schmooze took her seat across from me because the prospect of hitting on a woman who bears a striking resemblance to my Gram-Gram disturbs me, but it becomes apparent the silence between us I've enjoyed so far is about to be broken when she clears her throat. "Have you been in town long?"

"No" I say. "It's only been a couple of months."
"Well, where's home?"

"I'm sorry?"

"You know… home" she repeats, with an edge in her voice, as if I've missed something obvious. "Where you go for the holidays, where you want to settle down someday?"

"Right" I nod. "Home." That's a perfectly normal question for a person to ask when they're getting to know someone. It's a benign piece of trivia everyone has an answer to. Everyone except me I guess. I could tell her where I'm from, but that really wouldn't answer her question. I haven't even been back to Partridge since I was eighteen. "I actually have no idea-"

Thankfully, I'm interrupted by JJ's disgruntled shouting from across the restaurant. "Next table!"

For a moment, I consider offering my "date" a parting handshake, but the overwhelming stench of her Bengay reminds me why this night has been so damn uncomfortable so I just grab my coat and head toward the door.

However, before I can make it there that skinny-jean clad moron Jean-Ralphio appears, blocking my path. He immediately breaks into an improvised rap as if we're in some sort of bizarre, hellish musical. "B- to the e- to the n-j-i, yeah Benji's got swagger and the dopest tie." He stops to feel the silk material, and then tilts his head as if he's contemplating something. "Seriously, my man where did you buy this tie?"

"I don't know" I say, snatching it out of his hand. "Sears I think."

"For real? I didn't think anyone actually bought stuff there."

"Well, that's how businesses work, Jean-Ralphio. People purchase goods which creates revenue…"

"Dude, stop. I don't need a Social Studies lesson; I just want to know why you're taking off. These women are like mad easy to go home with."

"They're… elderly."

"That one's not" he says, gesturing to a nearby table. "Joanie is recently divorced, and down to clown if you know what I mean."
A head of sandy-brown curls turns towards me, and I groan when I recognize her face.

"Joanie" is Joan Calamezzo of channel 4 news, Pawnee's hot mess of a female news anchor. And, per usual, she's plastered.
Jean-Ralphio winks at me with an asinine grin on his face while he's walking away like he's done me a favor, and for a fleeting moment I consider punching him in the mouth.

"Hello sailor" Joan slurs, staggering in my direction. "What's somebody like you doing in a place like this?"

"That's a really good question Joan" I sigh. "Now that I think about it, I have no idea."

"Well, how about you and I ditch this old pop stand, and head to my place?"

"No, thank you."

"Are you sure?" she whispers. "Because I can show you things they only write about in textbooks, if you know what I mean."

I don't. But I'd prefer to keep it that way so I head for the door. "Listen Joan, I've had a long day. I'm just going to head back to my place and get some sleep-"

"You're sure going to need some sleep when I'm through with you and that strange Jewish boy over there" she says with a wink that sends a chill down my spine. I make a mad dash for the door.

So far this just might be the worst night of my life, but as I sprint down the sidewalk- and any potential for a three way between Joan and John Ralphio- I notice that it's snowing outside.

The first snow of the year always reminds me of how excited snow would make me when I was a kid. I'd sit in front of the window for ages watching the flurries, drinking hot cocoa, and planning my snow fort strategy. I wish anything in the world could make me that happy now.

A few kids in Ramset Park are laughing and running around, and a couple on a bench are snuggling together to keep warm. It's so annoyingly perfect, like I've stumbled into a Kincaid painting or something. The air even smells like Christmas between the overwhelmingly high pine tree concentration of this area of town and the street vendor on the corner selling fresh cinnamon buns.

For a fleeting moment I experience something resembling happiness, but the broken day-glow sign for the Sycamore Motel blinking in the distance reminds me that I'm on my way back to that little room with that uncomfortable bed covered by that awful floral print blanket, and it makes me sick inside.
(My outlook on life has been altered significantly since the television in my room broke. Apparently, the free HBO had been the one small thread holding the tapestry of my life together.)

At least Wednesday is over now. Three down, two to go.