spork, noun /spôrk/ plural noun
- a spoon-shaped eating utensil with short tines at the tip; a cross between a fork and a spoon
- a guy who is a spoon (see spoon) including nerdy, geeky, boring, irresponsible, loser types who projects himself like a fork (see fork) including cocky, arrogant, asshole types
- spoon who acts like a fork
- geeky guy who thinks he’s hot shit; inflated self-image disconnected from reality
Don’t Date That Spork!
Profile of a Real-Life Spork
Alone at a sushi bar in New York City, I was seated a chair away from a tall, lanky man leaning against the wall in the corner. He wasn’t attractive, and I didn’t give him much notice as I ordered and pulled out my book. Soon after, a cute, young, hip city-girl slide between us and kissed the tall guy.
As I nibbled my lunch, it was impossible not to overhear the playful conversation beside me, clearly that of a new relationship. Tentative questions in a get-to-know you tone dabbled along the sidelines of my consciousness.
I heard her conclude a story, “He’s just a cheater.” To which the older guy said without pause, “All men are cheaters.”
Whoa! What a fork! Way to show your true colors first thing with this woman, I thought, and let my gaze drift to the side observing him in more detail. He was balding and his last ring of hair was straggly and sticking out all over. He had a creepy, stubbly, narrow mustache glinting with gray.
What did she see in him?
He was geeky and spoony in appearance, but his fork-like cockiness barreled out of him. He was shaping into the very definition of a spork.
Cute city-girl tucked a sushi roll in her mouth, “Hmmm.” She said as he went on, “Most married men are cheaters.”
“Interesting,” she replied. With her cool answer, I figured she got it and would sprint away from him. I pleaded in my head, “Don’t date that spork!”
He talked about his job with toilets. She talked about her job with a high-end, top designer outfitting someone for the Oscars.
I was cheering for her to leave, to not be fooled, as Sporky launched into a story.
“He has two wives … no it’s true … I cover for him …” [Fork alert!]
“You’re kidding,” she said.
“… but he’s stupid, he doesn’t call that one enough… I wouldn’t do it that way … she has it good … home, money, doesn’t work … no, they don’t know about each other … I would call her more so she didn’t suspect … ” [Blaring Fork Alert!]
“Please. Tell me you’re kidding.”
“Welcome to my world. These are my friends,” his demeanor was arrogant, slick, challenging.
Trying to drown them out, I focused on my miso soup and the sentences in my book even as their uninhibited, vivid words punctuated my space and the quiet of the sushi bar.
I wanted to tell her to run, but she persisted in an all too typical female-fashion, trying to force this to fit, though her questions became bolder. Direct.
“What kind of husband were you?” she asked, her back to me, her voice carrying.
“Good, I think.”
“Were you attentive?”
“No. Not always.”
“Interesting … Are you compassionate?”
“What do you mean by that?”
She tried to explain compassion. Multiple times in multiple ways.
If you need to explain compassion to this guy. Please. Leave now. Run!
“Really. I don’t know what you mean? Like with kittens and babies or something?”
After a few more attempts to spell out the meaning of compassion, City-girl persisted.
“What would your wife say was her biggest complaint about you?”
“That I’m a womanizer.” He never hesitated, and answered with supreme confidence.
I almost fell out of my seat.
Why was she still talking to him? Still sitting there?
Then I did something out of a book or a movie. I couldn’t help myself.
I smoothed the sleeve of paper that the chopsticks came in, pulled out a pen, and wrote:
“He’s telling you who he is. Listen. Trust your gut.”
I hesitated, playing with it in my hands, deciding where to leave it. Finally, I folded the note in half so it popped back open, then I left it on my chair beside where she sat. I stood and walked out of the restaurant willing her to find the note and hear the screams in my head:
“Don’t date that spork!”
© Copyright Leah DeCesare 2014