Mr. Unavailable #133: "Recriminations Flared" and Other Melodramatic Phrases

See The Telltale Garb, The Sit-Com Setup, The Lukewarm Fuzzies, Little Island..., Coffee=The End? and Well Done for the background on this one.

Little did I know that telling #133 I never wanted to hear from him again wouldn't mean I would never hear from him again. “He’ll be back,” Eva predicted. “He likes the drama too much.”

A little part of me was excited at the prospect of drama. Being pursued. Triangulation. Maybe he’d choose me over his ex. Maybe I’d win. But, really, what was there to win? The idea of competition excited me more than the prospect of actually having him. I didn’t want him. I didn’t want to have anything to do with him.

Five days later it arrived. A letter. In the mail. He had my email address and my phone number, but, for someone like #133, the drama of a letter just makes sense. I opened the envelope to find yet another envelope. On the inner envelope, #133 had scratched a note:

“Tara – I tried to deliver this to your apt but never managed to get in. So I decided to mail it. –[#133]”

I feel another numbered list coming on…but, for now, drum roll please, the contents of the letter (imagine the words in scratchy cursive, if you will):

Dear Tara,

I want to apologize for the phone call I gave you last night. It was not the way I wanted to discuss the situation with you. Foremost, I want you to know that my ex was not in earshot of our conversation. I think it seemed as if she were. I did call you because of her, to prove that I was telling the truth: that I was dating a woman named Tara, and that we had not been intimate yet.

Just because you deserve to know the situation which led to that unfair phone call: My ex and I had a tumultuous break-up, and then recently we re-connected, talked, and agreed to talk some more—on Wednesday, in fact.

My first thought was that I should tell all to you. My next thought was, I’m seeing the ex in one more day and we’re going to work things out, or not work them out. So I decided to hold off on making any rash decisions. At the same time, I knew that I shouldn’t move my relationship with you to the next level with all this hanging over our heads.

Then last night, recriminations flared and I acted rashly. I’m sorry for that, but please know that I was not in front of her at the time.

Lastly, I want to express the truth that you are the sweetest, most fun, and prettiest date I’ve been on since my break-up—actually, you were the only person I found a connection with and went on a 2nd date.

The fact that you are so great, and I wound up being an ass at the end when I distinctly had had your feelings, and respect for you, in mind before I fucked it up, vexes me.

Thank you for all the fun we had, and for being so sweet, interesting and beautiful. Please know that I’m very sorry for acting like an ass at the end, when you deserved so much better.

Sincerely,
[#133]

P.S. Apologies for the hand-writing. I can’t do any better.

For five days, I'd done a good job of getting through the post-phone-call hurt, but, after reading the letter, everything stirred back up.
We need another numbered list:
1. I said I never wanted to hear from him again. This was hearing from him again.
2. An email would have been sufficient.
3. Similarly, a simple apology would have sufficed. I didn’t need to know the details of why he did what he did. Part of me thinks he wrote it just so he could use passive but dramatic phrases like, “Recriminations flared.”
4. I also didn’t need to know he tried to hand-deliver it. Was it so that I would think he was such a great guy? Too late.
5. “First,” he said, “she wasn’t in earshot”? Does he even hear what he’s saying? It doesn’t matter where the hell she was, he made the phone call.
6. How would calling me prove anything? I could lie, he could lie to her about what I was saying. It made no sense.
7. Because it made no sense, here’s what the phone call was really about: They got drunk, started fighting and then the real meaning behind the ex saying “Call her to prove it” was this: “If you call her and hurt her, you’re getting rid of my competition for good and proving your love for me.” But, like Eva said, that’s not love.
8. With four years of breaking up and getting back together, the amount of drama they will need to fuel their “relationship” will only get higher—bringing in third parties is just one way to do it.
9. Let’s just hope they never get married.
10. Or have kids.

And, most importantly:
11. All the nice things he said about me are 100% true.

Postscript: Even that was not the last of him. The day before Thanksgiving, he sent me a text: “Im sry 4 contacting u but im watching u on Casg Cab rt now. u look great.”

OK, so, I was on Cash Cab a few years ago and sometimes they rerun my episode, so he must have caught one. But here’s the thing: It’s a cable show and he doesn’t have cable, so he was probably watching it at his ex’s. That's just creepy.

Mr. Unavailable #134: The Band Guy

Vital Stats: 40ish. 5’10”ish. Dark floopy hair. Blue eyes. Well put together in a black leather jacket and jeans.

First impression: Self-important nobody band guy.

Two days after the phone call from #133, I was feeling feisty. After being out to dinner with my friend Fred and his girlfriend, we headed to Arlene’s Grocery to see a band. Fred was especially excited because he was also meeting up with an old friend from California who he hadn’t seen in over a year.

We were late to hear the band, but Fred must have quickly found his friend because a minute after we got there he was talking to someone I didn't recognize. The man, clad in a black leather jacket and jeans, had an overly staged look of cool. There was nothing baggy or flimsy or cheap about him. As soon as the band ended, we headed outside, congregating again on the sidewalk.

Fred introduced me to his friend properly.

“Oh, Tara, this is my friend, [Mr. Unavailable #134].”

I got a better look at him. It was worse than I thought. Other than the snazzy clothes, it was his hair. Jet black and shiny, it was longer than short but not exactly long and, parted on the side, swooped along his forehead above his blue-blue eyes and curved back nearish his ear, as if to suggest it had spent some time there. There were no obvious traces of product or spray, but it was all perfectly done. He’d had to have spent some time on it. And that bothered me.

It was cold outside Arlene’s and Fred and #134 started catching up, with #134 using a lot of band-related phraseology, as in, “Yeah, I heard he was on tour” and “He’s on the road.”

I couldn’t help myself. “Which road?” I said, blinking coyly. They laughed.

“Did you say you played here once?” I asked #134.

“I played here dozens of times,” he said, as if the mere thought of it exhausted him.

I internally rolled my eyes. “With any bands I’ve heard of?” I challenged.

“With a lot of different bands,” he said. “I was kind of the guy who’d fill in for whoever.”

“What do you play?” I asked.

“I’m a drummer,” he said.

“Oh, so you’re the guy in the band whose name nobody knows,” I said.

He laughed. “Yup, I’m that guy.”

Fueled by the laughter, I’d become extra plucky. I was also becoming slowly frozen. A down coat I’d ordered had arrived in the mail that day at work. I’d had it in my backpack all along, so I pulled it out and, silently handing the coat I’d been wearing to Fred, began to put on the new one. They stopped mid-conversation and giggled as if I’d pulled a rabbit from my hat.

“Where did that come from? Ya got another one in there? ’Oh, let me pull another outfit out of my bag,’” Fred mocked.

A puffy plastic heart was attached to the zipper of my new coat and it rode up as I zipped up.

“Hmm, what do you think? Am I supposed to leave it on?” I asked no one in particular as I held the heart and looked from #134 to Fred to his girlfriend.

#134 took a step toward me and touched the heart. “I like it. I think you should keep it,” he said as he zipped it up the extra inch or two I’d missed.

Was it me or did me and the band guy just have a moment?

We all headed toward Pianos, a bar down the street from Arlene’s, and #134 and I walked together, discussing things that were not band-related like the great lie of California weather (it’s not that hot) and his friendship with Fred (going on 30 years). When we got to Pianos, there was a huge line outside and me, Fred and his girlfriend decided we weren’t up for it. #134 said he wanted to check it out. We hugged good-bye.

“It was really nice meeting you,” #134 said.

“It was nice to meet you, too,” I said.

The three of us turned go.

“He was really nice, actually” I said to Fred as we crossed Allen Street, feeling a tiny bit wistful.

“Yeah, he’s a great friend. I’ve known him forever. You should watch Saturday Night Live tomorrow night, he’s gonna be on it.”

“Doing what?” I asked, imagining him as an extra in a skit.

“Playing drums,” he said.

I imagined him playing drums with the house band during commercials. “Really?” I asked, trying to picture where he’d fit on the cramped stage.

“Yeah, he’s the drummer in Maroon 5. They’re the musical guest tomorrow night.”

“He is? They are?” I stopped in my tracks as my mind raced backward trying to recount all the cheeky things I’d said. I regained my senses long enough to ask, “Is he single?”

It turned out he’d been with the same girlfriend for years and they even had kids together. “She’s awesome,” Fred said. Of course she was.

Signs of Hope: I thought we had a moment, anyway.

Red Flags: The long-term girlfriend.

Turning Point: There were two: 1. My possibly imagined moment. 2. Finding out about the girlfriend.

Diagnosis: For him: An extremely successful and annoyingly well put-together nice guy with a girlfriend—and kids, i.e., unavailable.

For me: Apparently, I judge first, ask questions later.

Mr. Unavailable #133: Well Done

See The Telltale Garb, The Sit-Com Setup, The Lukewarm Fuzzies, Little Island... and Coffee=The End? for the background on this one.

The day after our coffee date, I was feeling pretty good about things with #133. He'd done a good job of showing up, making plans and, for the most part, paying, so I figured I’d do something for him. I emailed him and asked him if I could take him to dinner on Saturday.

“That’s so sweet,” he wrote back. “That sounds great.”

Later that night, I was volunteering at a Moth storytelling event and ran into my old friend Heather, who was the host’s assistant. She told me about her own lukewarm relationship—how he canceled all the time and never took her out. The same familiar story. She wondered if he was seeing someone else. She showed me a picture. "I doubt it," I said.

After the show, I was waiting for Heather to come back from behind the stage to find out if I could tag along to the after-party when my phone rang. It was #133—it was the first time he was calling me. Ever. It was exciting. And I was excited to tell him where I was—volunteering at The Moth and maybe about to go to The Moth after-party. I picked up.

“Hi [#133 nickname],” I said cheerily.

“Hey, Tara. Oh, hey, yeah, you call me that.”

He sounded drunk.

“So, I feel really bad. I’m calling because…can you talk now…ok…so…you know how we haven’t had a sexual relationship, well, the reason is because I’m still in love with my ex-girlfriend and I want her back. You’re really great and everything, but I’m still in love with her."

“Were you going to tell me this last night? Is that why you asked me out for coffee?”

“Yeah…"

Great. My gut feeling about the coffee date had been right on.

He continued, "...so that’s why we haven’t had a sexual relationship.”

Heather returned, saw my stunned state and mouthed “What?” I gripped her arm and, looking at her, shook my head slowly.

#133 continued rambling on the other end of the phone.

“We’ve been on and off for four years and now I’m trying to get her back and I think she hates me but I’m in love with her….And the reason I’m calling is that I took my ex-girlfriend out for dinner tonight and, yeah, I’m pretty sure she hates me, but I’m still in love with her. And she knows about you and she doesn’t believe me that we didn’t have a sexual relationship. She thinks that because I stayed over, we must have had sex. So, she’s here and I’m trying to tell her that we never had sex.”

“Wait, she’s there?”

“Yeah, she’s here.”

I heard a voice in the background.

“She’s there right now?” I asked, enunciating every word.

“Yes, she’s here now and she said that the only way for me to prove to her that we didn’t have sex was to call you and ask you.”

I started shaking and now had a death grip on Heather’s arm.

There was only one thing left to say, so I said it. “I wish you the best of luck…and I don’t ever want to hear from you again.”

He made some sounds of confusion, as if wondering, "Why would she never want to hear from me again?"

“Good-bye,” I said and hung up. And then Heather and I went to the after-party.

Signs of Hope: I have to really reach on this one. How’s this: He said yes to my proposed dinner date?

Red Flags:
The interaction was fucked up on so many different levels, let’s create a numbered list:
1. They were broken up…it’s none of his ex-girlfriend’s business if we slept together…or if we didn’t sleep together…or if we had cuddle parties or even full-scale orgies.
2. He took her out for dinner…but, the night before that, he was reluctant to even buy me coffee.
3. They’ve been breaking up and getting back together for four years.
4. His ex-girlfriend said he should call me to prove we didn’t sleep together.
5. He actually called me.
6. When he called me, his ex-girlfriend was there.
7. He was surprised when I said I never wanted to hear from him again.
8. Looks like our Saturday-night date is off. Thank God—because I was buying.

Turning Point: When I hung up. I was done. Well done.

Diagnosis: For him: As Eva said after I told her the story: “He’s not in love with his ex, he’s in love with the drama. He doesn’t know what love is, because that’s not love.” He’s officially unavailable.
For me: I feel sick. As my new shrink said, “There’s a pattern with all these guys. It may not be obvious, but somehow, they all have something in common. You’ll find it if you really look for it.” The thought of finding it makes me feel even sicker.

Mr. Unavailable #133: Coffee=The End?

See The Telltale Garb, The Sit-Com Setup, The Lukewarm Fuzzies and Little Island... for the background on this one.

On our Roosevelt Island date, when we were at the pub, after I came up with a new nickname for him [eg., Bill-Billy], as we talked over ten chicken wings, #133 had talked about Halloween and seemed excited at the idea of us spending it together.

Instead, after our trip to the island, he fell off the map, and a few days later, as Halloween was approaching, he resurfaced to say he was skipping Halloween to go to his parents’ in Jersey. He seemed to go to Jersey a lot.

From Jersey, presumably, he emailed to ask if I wanted to get together the day after Halloween. A Tuesday. He wrote in his email: “Maybe we could hit a coffee shop or some such in your nabe—got a suggestion?”

A coffee date. The death knell of any budding relationship. There was that as well as the forced casualness of “nabe,” a word he’d never used before. Things were supposed to be progressing not digressing.

Forgetting that I was lukewarm about him anyway, I went into auto-panic. “I’m convinced he wants to go to a coffeeshop so he can dump me,” I said to Eva.

“It doesn’t sound like he’s going to break up. It sounds like he’s very laid back,” she said.

“We’ll see.”

On the night of the date, he emailed me before he left his place, sending me his favorite They Might Be Giants song with the note, “See you soon.”

Hmmm. That seemed not breakup-like.

When he got to my place, he sat on my sofa as I finished getting ready. Also not breakup-like. I sat on the sofa next to him and we made out for a while. That wasn’t very breakup-like either. We walked to get—yes, just coffee—at Ost on Ave. B and found a spot in a corner nook. I ordered coffee. He ordered wine. “I might as well,” he said, noting that it was happy hour (pre-breakup nerves?).

He paid for his wine and then the cashier rang up my coffee. “That’ll be $5.50,” she said.

I paused and looked at #133. “Oh, do you need some cash?” he said.

“Yeah,” I said. “I do.”

I would like to say that at that moment a light bulb went off, that I saw clearly that he could never measure up to what I was looking for and that I took matters into my own hands and dumped him myself. But I didn’t.

He paid. “Thank you very much,” I said. We sat down and he leaned into me and put his hand on my leg. I rested my head on his shoulder.

“It’s so funny that you had nothing in your profile and here we are. All you had were those photos, which you looked really pretty in….” he said, and then, as if he’d always thought it but it only just occurred to him to actually share it, he said, “…but you’re even prettier in person.”

He wasn’t trying to charm me; he was just being honest. Maybe I needed to give him a break. Maybe he just didn’t have a whole lot of money to splash out. Maybe he was just a little bit socially awkward and didn’t always know what to do—or say.

He asked what we should do next. “How about hors d’oevres and a movie at my place,” I said, giving him a break.

“That sounds great,” he said. We walked back to my place hand in hand and watched a movie. It was nice, comfortable. He didn’t try anything and I didn’t mind. Maybe this was how it was supposed to be. Tempered, moderate, calm. Maybe passion is supposed to build. It never seemed to work out when I was crazy about them anyway, so maybe this was just right. I asked him if he wanted to stay over, but he said he had an early deadline the next day. Seemed reasonable enough. We kissed good-bye. “Bye [Bill-Billy],” I said.

Signs of Hope: He had an earnestness that was endearing. And neither one of us broke up with the other.

Red Flags: Coffee?.…“Do you need some cash?”?….Passion?....He didn’t want to stay over?

Diagnosis: For him: Yes, it was just coffee. But maybe he just really wanted to see me.
For me: I’m not sure if he’s what I want, but do I even really know what I want?