Mr. Unavailable #133: The Sit-Com Setup

See The Telltale Garb for the background on this one.

It was a week after my date with #133 and I was confused. I thought it had gone well. He seemed interested. I seemed interested. But I hadn’t heard from him. I went over to Williamsburg to help Zoe prep for a possible makeup job, but we mostly ended up watching movies and ordering delivery. After 24 hours in her apartment, we needed to get out. At a bar on Bedford, we began discussing boys.

“You don’t make it obvious enough that you’re interested,” she said. “When I’m on a first date, I take their hand and stroke it and look deeply into their eyes.”

“If I was a guy on a first date with you, I’d be pretty sure I was about to get laid,” I said.

Usually, when we begin discussing boys, we begin texting boys.

“Why don’t you text him and say, ‘Hey, stranger. So when’s our next date and snog?’”

I was up for an experiment. Channeling Zoe, I texted him exactly what she had said. Five hours later came the reply: “Hey Tara! U left the okc fold I noticed. im glad u wrote me. Next week let’s meet. Weds?”

It was Thursday. Next Wednesday would mark the two-week point from our first date.

“Ask him why so far away,” Zoe said as if he’d just put her off, not me.

I really didn’t care enough to ask, so the next day I wrote back, “Superfantastic.” But immediately after I sent it, I felt stupid. Was I chasing him? Was he playing hard to get?

Two hours later, I harnessed a little of the crazy in me and rescinded my acceptance. “Actually, I can’t make it after all. Sorry about that. Best of luck to you!”

“Just like that! Ok be well Tara.”

Normally, I’d just leave it at that. But I wanted to do things differently. I may not stroke his hand on our next date, but I could communicate better and explain why I was being fickle. I texted him.

Me: I kind of sensed you weren’t so interested cuz I didn’t hear from you. I was impulsive and texted you yesterday. And then I felt silly for texting you. Usually don’t go into long explanations but I think there’s been some confusion.

#133: I meant to call u but was busy & in jerz a lot. My only concern was thinking up a non drinking date, the lush that I am

Me: Wow, it’s like a situation comedy setup. OK, you can ask me out again. And I like getting my dates liquored up so I’m always up for drinking dates.

I didn’t hear back from him, so I assumed we were still on for Wednesday. And then Wednesday rolled around. There was no word from him. Once more, in the name of doing things differently, I communicated, texting him.

Me: Did I mess up again? Or maybe I had something on my face? Mustard?

#133: Lets go out & ill check 4 mustard.

Me: Phew! That was close. You might also want to check for falafel.

#133: ill run the full battery of tests (falafel, mustard, ranch dressing…). so where does a teetotler go on a date? a motorcycle ride? to a falafel stand?

Me: Cake and music somewhere?

#133: Better than tea & sympathy. 2nite work, 2moro friends bday. Saturday work 4 u? maybe we can take that ride

He was working tonight? But we had a date.

Me: You’re working tonight?

#133: I cud get away 2nite. theres always procrastination. wen r u free? soon enuf 4 a ride maybe? or just let us eat cake?

Me: We need a dimly lit bakery. 8ish? Procrastination is a very useful tool.

#133: Clinton st bakery 8pm.

At about 7:30, he got to the Lower East Side.

#133: Better b dimly lit. Helmet hair.

Me: Don’t worry. Everyone will be looking at me anyway.

#133: Look @ that girl w the helmet head guy!

When I walked up to him outside the restaurant, he was holding his motorcycle helmet. He looked so harmless, dorky and helmet-heady. He was so not cool. I was relieved all over again.

“It’s Tara the mysterious disappearing girl,” he said, giving me a kiss on the lips (still good!).

“Me? You disappeared,” I said.

“I was glad to hear from you. I wasn’t sure if I would.”

“Were you afraid?”

“Huh? Well, I don’t know.”

We sat down inside and ordered.

He got serious. “You know, I would have gotten in touch with you again even though I didn’t hear from you.”

“When?” I asked. Last week?

“No, sometime this week.”

“Did you get my text about the sit-com setup?”

“What text?”

“After you said you were trying to come up with a non-drinking date.”

“You didn’t text me after that, did you?”

“Yes, I did.” I said. I picked up my phone. “It was a funny one, too. I’ll read it to you.”

I read it to him. We shared an a-ha moment as we realized the true depth of the sit-com setup. He thought I'd disappeared...I thought he'd disappeared.

Dinner wound down decently except for the fact that he was a little rude to the waitstaff (“No, I’m not done yet.”) made dinner conditional (“I’ll get this if you buy me a drink at the next place) and used the word "cheap" quite  a bit ("I like it because it's cheap."). Every time he said "cheap," it felt like he was stabbing me with his fork because I flinched every time. He also mentioned his "crazy" ex-girlfriend more than once.

We headed to Parkside Lounge on Houston and he partially redeemed himself by telling me entertaining backstories about different sayings (“Three sheets to the wind.”…”The hair of the dog that bit me.”), drawing pictures to illustrate them. It was cute, but I still felt intermittently annoyed. Things like this: I’d already gotten the first round of drinks, but when the second round arrived, #133 pretended not to notice they'd arrived, so I paid. I thought there would be some salvation when it turned out to be bar trivia night (I love trivia. Trivial Pursuit. Trivia night. Bring it.), but then he turned out to be excessively competitive. If I suggested an answer and he had one, too, he’d put down his.

During the height of my annoyance, I realized that my body language was terrible. I was facing the bar, not him. To seem a little more interested, I turned toward him. I was wearing my glasses when I turned and he looked at me and said, “Your eyes look really pretty through your glasses.” As far as compliments go, it was weak, but it counted.

Possibly the best part of the date was when we made it to the trivia finals. He was generous enough to let me represent our team and I joined the other reps at the front. It was a speed round where the head trivia guy said names of dead celebrities and the first one to call out the correct cause of death won. And if it was an overdose, you had to name the substance. Except for Gilda Radner, it was all overdoses, so for a solid five minutes, I got to jump up and down yelling, “Heroine! Cocaine! A speedball!”

#133 walked me home (bonus points) and, in front of my apartment, even though we kissed, I had the overwhelming desire to just hug him. It was the warm body syndrome. I simply wanted a warm body to hold; it didn’t really matter whose.

Signs of Hope: At least he paid for dinner. And he did compliment me.

Red Flags: He just annoyed me so much.

Turning Point: The hug at the end. Ah, a warm body.

Diagnosis: For him: His maturity level might be below my hopes and dreams, but, except for the two-week lag between dates, he seems like he might be available.
For me: I’m available for a couple of hugging sessions for sure.