Mr. Unavailable #126: The Imprinter

Prologue: I’m stuck on the idea of imprinting, a concept of nature I learned in biology. It goes something like this: When a baby bird hatches out of its shell, the first thing it sees is what it attaches to. For example, if it hatches and falls out of the nest and a Hell’s Angel picks it up, it thinks the Hell’s Angel is mom. After that, it can never shake the idea and if it ever couldn’t find its tattooed, leather-jacketed, beer-gutted, foul-smelling, crude-talking mommy, it’d be dead.

After the psychic planted in my mind the idea that my Mr. Available—a year and a half to two years away, she said—would be an outdoorsy type, I couldn’t shake it. My little brain went backward into recent memory in search of an outdoorsy guy and attached to the first one it came up with: #126.

Vital Stats: 6’. 45. Some kind of doctor. Demeanor: A bit out to lunch but in an endearing way. Aesthetic: Agave-syrup-and-hiking-boot man in New York.

First Impression: Far too cheerful outdoorsy guy—with a gut.

What Happened: The day I sent #120 the “Cake” IM over Facebook, I went to see Bridesmaids with my friend James and some of his friends. #126 was one of them. He had just moved back to New York City after 14 years in the great southwest and looked like he hadn’t completed the transition. Walking down 2nd Avenue, he was outfitted like he was going on a hike—backpack, waterproof jacket, hiking sneaker things and wraparound shades. He also had blonde hair just long enough to tuck behind his ears. And he was so damned cheerful. It was all too much. When we shook hands to say hello, I practically rolled my eyes. On edge over#120's potential response, I really didn’t feel like making nice with the new guy, so I pulled my hat down and walked ahead.

Fast-forwarding a few weeks to the post-psychic period, I had plans to hit an anniversary party uptown, but I’d spent a less-than-fun, extra drama weekend with the partygoers a few weeks earlier and really didn’t feel like mixing with them again so soon. Then James called and invited me to his birthday dinner that night.

I had to examine my priorities: Go uptown to a party where there were people I didn’t like that much and maybe new boys (but most likely not) OR go to dinner with James and a few close friends. #126 was also in the back of my mind, and when James mentioned he was going, my priority became clear.

When I walked into the restaurant, I was the third one there—it was me, James and #126. When James re-introduced us, #126’s eyes went big and his voice went silent. He stared at me as if he was absorbing my general being. I started talking about my great search for small chandelier lampshades and #126, staring, asked if I had good taste in interior design.

“If I get this job I interviewed for, I may be moving to Arizona, so I need someone who looks like my sister to rent out my place, maybe help me fix it up, you know what I mean?” he said.

Moving? Already? He’d grown tired of New York fast. But I liked that he was a schemer. I also liked that he had a two-bedroom on 2nd St. and Ave. A about two blocks from my apartment.

“Are you interested?” he asked.

“I am.”

And then he revealed his one regret about leaving New York: “There are so many beautiful women in New York. Everywhere I go,” he said. James nodded in agreement, and then both of them looked at me as if I were one of the beautiful. And then #126 continued, “There are so few good-looking women in the southwest, so it’s kind of ridiculous here, you know what I mean.”

I did know what he meant. “Yeah, that’s kind of the problem for us,” I said, “us” being New York City women. “The guys here are like, ‘Well, I’ve got this one but, oh wait, there goes another one…’”

He just nodded and stared. It was hard to tell if he was paying attention—or if he was even able to pay attention—but then I heard James mention that #126 was some kind of doctor. In the sharp-knife drawer, where did he fall? Then he started rambling on about some tests he’d taken and how on half of them, he’d been declared a genius and on the other half, he’d been declared nearly retarded.

“Maybe you’re both a genius and an idiot, which means you’re normal,” I said.

He had to think about that for a while.

More people arrived and he had to move down the banquette, but, for the rest of the night, I felt his eyes on me even when he wasn’t looking at me. My eyes were—and weren’t—on him, too.

At the end, I gave him a hug and said, “Oh, yeah, get my number from James for the apartment.” He seemed confused.

“Or you can get my number from him,” he said.

A few days later, I got his number from James and called him. He called back a while later and said he needed a trustworthy person for the apartment. “Are you trustworthy?” he asked.
I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not so I chose to believe he was.

“Yup, I am. James can vouch for me.”

He said a few other dopey things, which I found endearing, and then said I could come over to his place the next day—preferably later because he and James were pulling up the floor and he hoped it would look better.

The next day when I went over, James was pulling up pieces of floor and even though #126 had a face mask on, he still stared. I took a look around. It was no two-bedroom, but it was a nice-sized one-bedroom.

“Maybe want to get coffee tonight? We can talk about plans and things like that, you know what I mean?” Then he said he'd call me later.

As I left, bits of floor stuck to the bottoms of my flip-flops. I lifted one foot up behind me and reached to pull the pieces off, but then #126 came toward me and mumbled through his mask, “Wait, I’ll get that.” Then he gently peeled the bits of wood from the bottom of my foot and held them in his hand, looking at me. I took another step and my other flip-flop took pieces of floor with it, too. But this time, I lifted my foot and waited, letting him lean in and peel the bits off. Again, he held them and just looked at me. If it was up to me—and it didn't seem crazy—I would have walked slowly back and forth across his floor for the rest of the day.

Signs of Hope: All the staring he was doing. And when I walked across his floor.

Red Flags: “There are so many beautiful women in New York.”

Turning Point: Pre-psychic, I wasn’t interested. Post-psychic, I was.

Diagnosis: For him: He’s moving. Clearly, he’s unavailable for a relationship.
For me: #126 has imprinted all over me. Although I don’t want a relationship with him, I am due for a summer fling.