I do this, you know

I am happy to be invited or included. Then I go and I can't wait to get away on my own. It happened this weekend. 

Noir City Chicago! TCM's Eddie Muller has replaced Jerry Lewis as my annual Labor Day date, hosting this film festival of classic noirs at Chicago's Music Box Theater over the holiday weekend again this year. On Saturday, eight of us from my movie group got together in person to see Black Angel. I enjoyed the movie thoroughly – it was short and twisty – and the company. I had drinks with my compadres before the film and posed for an apres movie picture with (sigh) Eddie himself and went home very happy.

Then Sunday happened. Weeks ago, when the Noir City schedule was announced, I said I was excited to see my favorite Elvis movie, King Creole, on the big screen for the first time. Christine, a group member who is making an effort to be my friend, said it was her favorite, too, and she wanted to go with me. I don't know why she didn't come to the group event on Saturday. 

Now let me be clear: I was going anyway. I knew none of the group regulars shares my affection for The King or this movie. I am perfectly happy watching a movie in the theater alone. It's also not hard for me to get to The Music Box. I take a 15-minute commuter train into the Loop and then a cab or rideshare. (I could take the bus, it would be cheaper, but that's a long-ass ride with lots of stops.)

Anyway, Christine seldom comes into the city. In the run-up to the Sunday movie, I got emails and texts from her. Since she lives in a faraway suburb and is afraid to drive in the city, would I mind if she parked near my place and we ride the train in together? I told her that was fine. Then she wondered exactly where she could park near me, and would I split the parking with her? Now why would I pay for her parking? I told her that if she could wait a while – this was days before the movie – I would send her photos of the metered parking near my home. But, it was raining, so "stay tuned." She kept on messaging me, asking about this parking garage or that she researched online. No, I said, there is metered parking closer to my building and I would send her photos ... just please give me a few hours until the rain stops.

No, she kept messaging. She told me she's afraid to drive in the dark. OK, I can help her with parking and public transportation but not with the sun and moon. King Creole started at 4:00. With Sunday train schedules being what they are, we wouldn't get from the theater to my place until after 8:00. So it would be dark when she was on the road to her home. It just would. It's unavoidable.

More messages. There's a commuter train from her faraway suburb into the city. Maybe she should just take that? HELL, YES! I said I'd meet her train and we could take a rideshare together to the theater. We agreed we'd grab a bite to eat after the movie. She asked what she would owe me for the rides. I told her not to worry about it – I was going to pay for the rides anyway. But it would be nice if she paid the tax and tip at dinner. 

I met her train and felt like such a bitch. She brought me a book about JFK she found at her local library book sale. After all, she said, she knows I love him and I support libraries. How thoughtful of her!

Before the movie we had a drink in the theater lounge. She told me how she always loved Elvis, how she watched this movie many times with her sister. I agreed that it's his best movie and was excited to see it with a theater of people who enjoyed it and took it seriously. We took pix of each other in the lobby.

Except afterward Christine confessed she'd never seen King Creole before. She thought it was Jailhouse Rock. Oh, you mean the movie where he sings "Jailhouse Rock?" So much for being a lifelong Elvis fan. We also didn't have that much to talk about. She loves her dog and her yard. But she doesn't watch the news and doesn't know anything about current affairs. 

I'll be honest, by the time we got to our separate trains, I couldn't wait to get away from her.

Then Monday there were more and more texts! She didn't like any of the photos I'd taken of her in the lobby, so she'd manipulated them using AI. She shared them with me, including one she'd taken of me where I looked (literally) like a cartoon.

Leave me alone!

I realize I sound like a bitch. I feel like a bitch. Here's a perfectly nice woman who keeps making overtures to be my friend. I realize that might be hard for her, and understand that it's a compliment to me. Friendship is, after all, a gift. 

But maybe I'm like Groucho Marx: I don't want to belong to any club that will have me as a member.