Mr. Unavailable #113: Paper Perfect

See The Phoenix Rises... for the background on this one.

Every few months, #113, the neurologist-pianist I’d been introduced to in Arizona in October 2010, would send me messages on Facebook with compliments (“You look stunning in that dress…”) and allusions to future visits (“I might be coming to New York to see my family in New Jersey… Do you like Tom Stoppard? Arcadia is playing in New York...”) This went on for more than a year. Every time I’d hear from him, I’d get excited and then hear…nothing.

In mid-December, he wrote again, “I’m coming to New York from the 23rd to the 26th. Are you around?” I already had things scheduled—parties, a trip to Boston, meeting Eva for a birthday breakfast. I wasn’t reworking my plans to accommodate a potential no-show, so I wrote back to say he was more than welcome to come to the party I was going to on Christmas Eve-Eve.

And then I forgot all about it.

Christmas Eve-Eve morning, I was readying myself to dive into the aforementioned plans when the phone rang. It was an Arizona number I didn’t recognize, so I let it go to voicemail. And then I listened to the message. It was #113 saying he was at his hotel in Soho, that he was going to get some culture and see the DeKooning exhibit and did I want to come with him?

Culture? I had no time for last-minute, unscheduled culture. Let me reiterate: I had plans. I called him back. He was friendly, engaging, talkative—someone who would do well in a party setting. I told him I had plans all day, but he was welcome to come to the party in Williamsburg that night.

“Oh, I’d love to go—if you want me to go. I don’t want to be in the way.”

“Oh. No, I want you to come. It will be fun. Another friend of mine is coming. We can all go.”

“I just want to spend some time with you... I haven’t seen you in a while, so I’ll go anywhere” he said. “And I haven’t been to Williamsburg in a long time.” I asked him when he’d arrived. Wednesday night, he said.

He’d waited until Friday morning to call me. “What have you done so far?” I asked.

“I went to the Steinway piano factory yesterday to get a piano. That’s actually why I came here.”

OK, that’s kind of sexy.

“I even found one I liked. I wasn’t sure that I would, but I did.”

He explained that they only make 150 grand pianos a year and each one takes a year and a half to make. Owning one had been his lifelong dream. He’d even bought the right-sized house the previous spring to have something to put it in. As someone who composes and plays his own music, it was necessity wrapped in luxury. A pianist and a neurologist. Paper perfect.

“Congratulations,” I said.

“Yeah, I told my family I was getting a piano and they said, ‘Be sure to get a good bench. You have to get a decent bench.’ Never mind the piano, it’s all about the bench to them.”

I laughed. He told me he was staying at the Mondrian on Crosby, so we made plans to meet around 8 p.m. at the bar before heading to Williamsburg.

Around 6 p.m., he texted: At friends uptown to see their kids…815?
Me: Sure. Sounds good.
#113: Everyone have kids.
Me: Not everyone.
#113: True
Me: You just have to hang in the right circles.

And by "right circles," I meant my circles—my childless, single circles.

Kevin and I reached the hotel around 8 p.m. The lofty bar area was nouveau Alice in Wonderland—an English garden decorated with oversized glasses, vases and pitchers. Mismatched chairs sat with wrought-iron-and-glass tables.

“You told him you were bringing me, right?” Kevin asked as we settled into stools by the bar.

“I said a friend was coming."

“He probably thinks I’m a girl,” he said.

“Maybe…Maybe not,” I said.

#113 texted that he was stuck in a cab coming down 5th Avenue. Then he called. “Hey. I’m really sorry I’m late. You guys can go ahead to the party if you don’t want to wait and I can meet you there. You’re at the bar? Charge the drinks to my room. I want to get your drinks. So sorry I’m late.”

I told him we weren’t in any hurry and would be at the bar when he got there. I hung up and turned to Kevin.

“Yup, he thinks you’re a girl,” I said. “He offered to buy our drinks.”

“I thought he might. No one ever thinks ‘opposite sex’ when a ‘friend’ is coming along,” he said.

“When he walks up, to give him some warning, I’ll yell, ‘It’s a boy!’” I said.

Over Kevin’s shoulder, I watched the door for #113. It wasn't just the bar, the entire Mondrian was nouveau—nouveau money. There wasn’t a suit in sight, but there was attitude everywhere. And then #113 walked through the door—in gray cords, a cream sweater and a scarf around his neck. Neurologist chic.

I walked up to him as he came down the steps, smiling. We hugged and he kissed me on the cheek, holding me. Even when I rolled my body away to introduce him to Kevin, he held me to him, almost claiming me as he reached out with his other arm to shake Kevin’s hand. (It’s a boy!)

Signs of Hope: When he held me to him.

Red Flags: The fact that it took him more than a year to get to New York and, in that time, he’d resurfaced and then disappeared several times.

Turning Point: When he walked into the bar.

Diagnosis: For him: He liked-me–liked-me a year ago and he still likes-me–likes-me today.
For me: I didn’t like-him–like-him a year ago, but I like-him–like-him today.