Watching the Soprano’s last night tossed me into a massive series of flashbacks about what it was like to grow up in Connecticut just over the border of New York. We spent a lot of time in New York City as a family and I spent a lot of time there as a single gal. I have very few bad memories of life in and around New York. The older I get, the more I really start to miss it. I’m not packing my bags yet, but last night was the first time the thought entered my brain and stayed there for more than 32 seconds.
Anyway, until I wash this latest hare-brained idea down the drain, I’m going to tell some stories this week about what dating up there was like. Today, you get the story of Frankie Finesse.
My pint sized girlfriend J and I were at a very happening (at the time) club in Stamford Connecticut. After I had sufficiently sprayed my phone number from one end of the Terrace Club to another, we decided to leave. We fell out of the front door, smack into a white stretch limo. Two good looking men emerged from the backseat and invited us inside. The moronic 23 year olds that we were, we hopped in.
The window between the driver and the backseat was rolled down and the driver asked if we were all having fun. From what I could see in the rear view mirror, he was pretty cute. Next thing I know, I’m asking if we can drive the limo, and pint sized J is behind the steering wheel. The driver, Frankie, slid over and sat next to me. J spun that limo around the parking lot for a few minutes, we exchanged numbers, said our goodbyes and that was the end of the night.
Frankie called. Boy did he call. Over and over. I decided to go out with him. Since I was living with my brother at the time, I didn’t want him coming to my house with his freaking limo (apparently it was his business and his only car) so I went to his house, in the Bronx baby!!!
We go on our date, and his cell phone rings. Now, this would be a normal scene for anyone on a date in today’s time. But let me remind you: The year is 1996. Cell phones were the size of shoeboxes at the time. So Frankie is on his cell phone for the entire meal, acting as much Tony Soprano that he could pull off, wheeling, dealing, agreeing to pick up some big whig and drive him around with his hookers and strippers for the night. Every call he took, he smiled at me, and rolled his eyes as if to say, “This is what life with Frankie Finesse is like, all glory.”
I decided it was definitely time to go. Like, yesterday. So we hurried out of there and went back to his house where I could drop him off and get back to WASP-Land Connecticut and the safety of my parents house, where my brother and I were living at the time. Frankie asked me to come inside for a minute. I protested, but he said he had to give me something.
Funny as I’m telling this story, I look back and think that I would never go in this guys house now. But, ten years ago, whatever. He handed me a bouquet of flowers. It was really a mess of flowers, no one flower looking like the next. They looked wild if you asked me, but what the hell did I know? I’ve rarely been on the receiving end of flowers. I brought the mess home with me, plopped it on the kitchen counter and went up to my room. To do what, I have no idea. We didn’t have internet back then.
I hear my brother go bounding down the stairs, careen around the corner, stop dead in his tracks and start cackling like a hyena who just smoked a joint.
“WHAT IDIOT GAVE YOU THESE WEEDS?”
When I was 15 my summer ‘boyfriend’ picked the daffodils outside my parents’ house (which were not there for picking) when he showed up to take me on a date. A few years later he knocked up an 18-year-old and got married. Oh, the life I coulda had… I can confidently say the grass is not greener on his side of the fence. (Probably because he picked it all.)
[snicker] I think he needs a better, more accurate, name than “Frankie Finesse”
“Samuel Smooth as Sandpaper” comes to mind
Um. That was his real name. I googled him just to see if the limo biz was still in existence. No sign of it, and 10 years have gone by, so I figured using his real name was fine.
I was so scared to find out what he had waiting for you…too many Soprano’s episodes under my belt.
Strange time to give you flowers, though. At least he tried?
His real name? That’s awesome.
I had a similar limo experience and when you said the “moronic 23 year olds” I had to laugh because now I would never have gotten into that limo! The driver gave us beer and started showing us pictures of topless women. We realized he wanted to add us to his book-no thank you.
Wait, “Frankie Finesse” is his REAL name? You MUST be shitting me. 🙂
I was just about to congratulate you on the awesome alias you came up with.
thats gold, velvet!
Cannot stop thinking about Sammy (the limo driver) from Wedding Singer. He dressed like Michael Jackson, tho’… Frankie Finesse just needed the leather glove.
It’s definitely his real name. At least the one he gave me. I’ve been known to tell people my name is Renee when I go to bars, and that’s not my name, so who knows?
Anyway, I didn’t mean to say that all 23 year olds are moronic, if I did, Scarlet. I certainly was, but kids today are smarter than I was 10 years back.
“He said he had to give me something.” Uh huh. Flowers, weeds, could have been way worse with a line like that.
I was waiting for your brother to say, “those are cemetery flowers.”
WOWZA: Word verification bgulp…BIG GULP!!!!
Well, V, when I get back, let’s have a night out where you are Renee and I am Shelly (or Shellee if it’s karaoke).
Velvet does karaoke?!
Request permission to witness.
I could see you living in NYC. If you move back, I will definitely come to visit!
That is amazing. I can just see him with a Zach Morris brick up to his face, trying to impress you about the fact that he drives a limo around all over the place. I guess it just proves sometimes cute (ha, sometimes? more like MOST of the time, at least if you’re not a boy) isn’t good enough.
Are you going to be at the HH this week?
😉 Zack Morris reference 😉
Velvet — It’s time to consider writing a book. This story put such a big smile on my face. Do I get another one tomorrow?
You just reminded me of my cousin, who is equally cool. She once went out on a date with an a-hole whose last name was…Ferrari.
Needless to say, the pooty store was closed that evening.
No worries, Velvet. It didn’t come across that you were calling all 23yos moronic. I just related because I’ve had my own moronic moments.
Too funny! I heart this blog.