Mr. Unavailable #178: The Knife Incident

See Trigger Man-Boy for the background on this one.

Although things looked promising with #185, I didn’t want to entirely rule out #178. One Friday night just before Christmas, with #185 having gone off on a two-week cross-country excursion to visit family, I headed to Williamsburg with Kevin for a gathering of like-minded Brooklynites.

Inside, I zeroed in on #178 sitting at a table behind me. Casually turning in his direction as if surveying the room, I momentarily stepped back as I laid eyes on him, in mock surprise to see him. I briefly introduced him to “my friend Kevin” and then the two of us discussed holiday vacation plans.

“I’m going home to Massachusetts to see my mom’s family for five days,” he said, “although now I wish I weren’t going for so long. But I spent five days over Thanksgiving with my dad, so now…”

“Oh, equal time,” I said. “Of course.” Seeing as I hadn’t made much of an effort to see my parents during the holidays in eight years, his reluctance to go was more than forgivable.

“What are you doing?” he asked. Maybe it was the crowd of people around us, but lurking somewhere inside him seemed to be the nerves of a Chihuahua. His eyes darted around and he couldn’t fully hold still. Maybe he was cold. Or maybe I was making him nervous. Again, entirely forgivable.

“I’m staying here,” I said with a tint of shame.

“That’s great. I wish I was doing that,” he said.

In group formation, we walked the several blocks to Action Burger. All the while, #178 and I maintained spitting distance. Filing into the shop, he looked a little lost in the crowd. I pulled a chair over so he could sit by me. I felt a bit like I was overcompensating for his lack. I tried to engage him in conversation about the décor, which consisted entirely of comic-book paraphernalia. “Were you a comic book guy?” I asked.

In our large, exuberant group, he became smaller and smaller, shrinking before my eyes. It took work to keep him engaged. At one point, a girl who was wedged in a corner seat called to him, “Hey [#178], can you get me a knife?”

#178 got up and, looking puzzled, spun around and walked toward the counter where they were taking orders. He glanced around the immediate vicinity, turned back around, came back, sat down and said, “I don’t know where they have them. They might have them behind the counter or something.”

Another guy in our group got up and the girl called, “Hey, can you get me a knife?”

“You got it.” He walked straight up to the counter and asked, “Hey, can I get a knife?” Moments later, over the head of #178, he passed the girl a clean white plastic knife.

Who knew that one little plastic knife could entirely decimate a crush? But it did. A little shy is fine, but for me—for what I want—this was unforgivable. I stopped making an effort. I actually felt some relief. After dinner, walking out the double doors with Kevin, I said, “Did you see…the thing with the knife.”

“Yeah,” he said, frowning in active commiseration.

“Am I overreacting?”

“No,” he said. “Not. At. All.”

Unlike previous times, I didn’t make any special attempt to say good night to #178. I waved toward him and the other remnants of the group standing on the corner, “See you later. Have a good night. Happy holidays.” And then I disappeared with Kevin down into the subway to catch the L train home.

Signs of Hope: There was definite interest. On both sides.

Red Flags: There was just too much to forgive.

Turning Point: The knife incident was unforgivable.

Diagnosis: He may be available, but he’s not what I’m looking for.

Mr. Unavailable #185: Cracking the Code

See The Voice for the background on this one.

Speaking of passive, I was employing a new dating tactic. A little background: I have a problem with men who don’t pay. Often, I offer to help pay because it feels like the right thing to do. But my offer is disingenuous because I don’t really want to pay. And then if they take me up on it, I don’t like them anymore. It’s a form of entrapment. By offering, I lead my dates to believe I’m a willing Go-Dutcher when, in reality, it’s a test. And that’s not very nice. When we move in together, I’ll happily pay half of the rent, but in the beginning, I want to be wooed.

So when the bill came at The Place and the waitress laid it down next to me (Come on, sister, can’t you give a girl a break), it took every cell in my body to sit there and do nothing. #185 reached over, took the billfold, got out his card and placed it in it. I squirmed, fighting the urge to reach into my purse, swim my arm around in a fake hunt for my wallet and say, “Oh, can I…?” Instead, I leaned forward and said, “Thank you for dinner. This was lovely.”

By the time we got to Milk and Cookies, it was even harder for me to resist the urge to “get dessert because you got dinner.” But I did. He shelled out the $10 for two cookie sandwiches and I thanked him, feeling like a gold digger.

The bakery wasn’t particularly customer-oriented. Every table was covered with boxes for holiday orders. A worker wrapping them was blind to the paying customers hovering in the corner trying to avoid the rain outside (that would be us). As we licked at our desserts and chatted about our our mutual love of the theater, I was hoping #185 would take care of things. But he didn’t. A moment later, I stepped toward the worker and said, sweet-as-an-ice-cream-cookie-sandwich, “Hey, can we just squeeze in right here?” He frowned and grumbled but moved some boxes anyway. We sat down.

“I’m glad you did that,” #185 said. He pressed his leg against mine. I tingled. Despite whatever prejudices my head was holding against him, my body felt only chemistry. I gazed into his crimson countenance. His gaze held mine. I smiled. He smiled back, breaking into his big Wallace-and-Gromit grin.

We walked to the 4^th Street subway station and stood underground at the fork between uptown and downtown. “Which way are you going?” I asked.

He gestured over his shoulder in the uptown direction with an exaggerated nonchalance. I giggled. I held open my arms and he put his arms around me, holding me extra tight for extra long. He gave me a take-charge kiss on the cheek and we said good-bye.

I enumerated his qualities to Kevin the next day.

“He’s kind of dorky and pretty goofy-looking but he’s also got some edge. And he paid for everything. And he’s capable of prolonged eye contact.”

“Um, ok. That’s all good. But are you attracted to him?” he asked. He was subtly referring to my tendency to talk myself into liking guys I wasn’t particularly attracted to.

“When he pressed his leg against mine, there was definitely something there.”

“Oh, really?”

“Chemistry. Jerk. Enough of it to see what happens next.”

Signs of Hope: Definite chemistry.

Red Flags: I felt like I had to take charge a couple of times.

Turning Point: When he pressed his leg against mine.

Diagnosis: Maybe I’ve finally cracked the code. Maybe the key to finding a capable relationship participant is to date a 39-year-old (on the verge of a self-reflective “why-am-I-single” 40!) New Jersey commuter (stability!) who’s chemically—as opposed to factually—attractive (less competition!).

Mr. Unavailable #185: The Voice

Vital Stats: 5’11”. 39. Database administrator. Aesthetic: Boxy Polo sweaters and other outerwear that was on trend in 1999. Demeanor: A man who’s not afraid to smile, and smile big.

For several months, I’d let my OKCupid profile idle online, keeping it running only to feel like I was doing something. But the only something I was doing was responding to a message here, a Quickmatch alert (where you’re notified if someone gives you four or five stars) there.

One night, an alert came in. I checked out the Quickmatcher’s profile. It indicated he lived in New Jersey and that he was funny. His photos were cute, too, but in a way where, in person, he could look goofy. Somewhat apathetically, I rated him five stars in return and went to bed.

The next morning, a message from him appeared. He wrote in complete sentences sectioned into two paragraphs and punctuated with an offer of a dinner date. “Who is this overeager yahoo?” I asked Nora and Liz after reading his message aloud over pizza that night. The answer was found in his note’s second-last sentence: “I'll be honest, I've never done this and I'm not quite sure what the protocol is.”

I replied with instructions. “Thanks for your message. That would be great if you want to try to persuade me to go out to dinner sometime. Maybe you can warm up to it via phone? My number is: 212-555-1234. Looking forward to it. Happy 12-12-12.” Walking home 15 minutes later, I checked my OKC app. He’d already replied: “I’m on my way!” And I’d missed a call. From New Jersey. Him.

His naivete around online-dating protocol was charming yet suspect. Feeling wary, I went home and listened to his message. I was surprised to find he had a deep, saucy voice and a measured way of speaking. I called him back the next night. We spoke for an hour. The conversation wasn’t particularly noteworthy—mostly, he detailed his numerous household moves, which were entirely contained within the state of New Jersey.

However, I felt a magnetic attraction to that voice. I wanted it to like me. It made me feel like it would say it had to go at any moment. That maybe it wasn’t interested in me. That it would keep me guessing. The lack of interest I perceived in it made me want to win it over. I found myself laughing even when the things it said weren't all that funny. And then it dawned on me. His voice was unavailable. 

He emailed me the next day to set up a date, writing, “…making you laugh might be my new favorite thing.” Phew.

We met up the next Monday night. He’d picked a place in the West Village named, well, The Place. I looked it up online and saw it was notable as a “romantic spot.” Doubtlessly, he’d found it by Googling “West Village romantic spot.”

I got there first and waited, nervous, hoping he wasn’t goofy-looking in person. When he walked in, we hugged. He seemed taller than the 5’10” he’d described online. Otherwise, he was, indeed, goofy-looking. But part of me was glad. Because, I realized, it counteracted the power his voice had over me.

He had a gummy grin and a jet-black dollop of gelled hair atop his generally large, oval-shaped head. He also looked permanently sunburned. He didn’t drink, so either he’d had a long, destructive alcoholic past resulting in him being a member of a group of like-minded New Jerseyites or he had an unfortunate skin condition. Or both.

Though I found fault with his appearance, I was thoroughly attracted to his presence. He had the energy of someone you could trust, a confident conversational manner and, when he leaned his hand against his leg as he told stories in his low baritone about childhood high-jinx with his two brothers, a manly authority.

His presence was made perhaps even more accessible by a well-worn suburban-ness. He commuted to work via New Jersey Transit. He lived walking distance from his parents’ house. He picked the restaurant not based on its foodie-ness but on the internet’s opinion of its ambience. He owned a car.

“What kind of car?” I asked, eager for a detailed picture of this fascinating parallel universe, hoping that in describing it he wouldn’t notice the energy I was expending on chewing a particularly grisly piece of chicken. I wanted to spit it out in my napkin, but the risk of him noticing was too great. As he detailed some kind of boxy four-door sedan from the 1990s, I swallowed—with effort.

Impressively, he’d planned a two-part date. Part two involved a trip to Milk and Cookies Bakery for ice cream cookie sandwiches. It was raining as we left The Place and he was prepared with an umbrella, a vintage specimen with a duck handle that he was openly proud to own. After walking a few blocks, he realized we were walking in the wrong direction and consulted his phone, then walking us farther in the wrong direction.

I’m never sure what to do during times like these. I know the man is supposed to be the man and I’m supposed to let him lead, but it was raining out and, having not eaten much of my chicken dinner, I was hungry. I suppose it was also a good excuse for us to get even closer, which neither of us seemed to mind. In as passive a way as possible, I leaned in to scan his phone map and then pointed us in the right direction.

To be continued…

Mr. Unavailable #178: Trigger Man-Boy

Vital Stats: 5’7”ish. Late 30ish/early 40ish. Aesthetic: Computer programmer with the ability to dress himself. Demeanor: Shy but cheerful. Unassertive but attentive.

Somewhere between the end of September and early December, something happened. A mental shift. A brighter outlook. Maybe even a glimmer of enlightenment. I was doing my thing. Working. Hanging out with friends. Generally feeling pretty content. Life was good. It was perfect as it was. Without a man.

Here’s what I knew: Waiting for a man to complete me was something out of a Disney movie. I’d been witnessing too many friends—past and present—living in a constant state of want. It was painful to see. And, clearly, a waste of energy.

I told Eva as much. “I think what you’re experiencing,” she said, “is called self-love.” Self-love. That elusive secret to a complete life. The unexpected armor against the unavailable. The holy grail of emotional evolution.

Eva had entered into a game of chase with a heavy-drinking bass-playing bartender who, bearing a resemblance to a bloated version of Kurt Cobain, I’d nicknamed Fat Kurt to remind her that she was not seeing things clearly. He bluntly told her he wasn’t looking for a girlfriend, but still, she had hope. “I slept over at his place last night. Nothing happened, of course. We’re just friends.” She smiled big, meaning even she didn’t believe what she was about to say. “But he’ll grow to love me.” At least one of us was still willfully delusional.

As for me, I hate how they say you find people when you’re not looking, but, perhaps due to a lack of wont, I had two bachelors in the offing. I’d met #178 at a birthday dinner after Thanskgiving. A large group of us piled into a Mexican place in Greenpoint one night. Eva and I situated ourselves next to each other and then let others fill in around us. Across from her was her ex-boyfriend from more than a year and a half before. Since he was a rebound thrice-removed, he’d entered her friend zone. Across from me was a cute guy with a blue knit hat. I introduced myself. He did the same. “Hi, I’m [#178].”

He spoke to me with a magnetic, eager little smile. I found out his band had broken up a month before after a European tour, he’d recently moved to Park Slope and he’d started a job as a programmer a week before—at Google. In New York City, knowing people in bands that tour Europe is pretty hum-ho. But Google?

“Wow. Google. What’s that like?”

“It’s awesome,” he said. “The rumors are true. Chefs, 24-hour snacks, an espresso bar, people bring their dogs to work.” Halfway through dinner, Eva leaned in to me over her meal of flan and said, “I like the idea of you and [#178].” I liked the idea, too. He was the kind of guy who was easy to overlook. Shy, understated and kind of adorable…which begged a few questions.

The first question: “He looks really young,” I said.

“He’s older than he looks,” Eva said. “Trust me. And he’s single.”

Outside the restaurant, he positioned himself nearby and then walked with me, talking with me as a group of us headed for the train. When three of us got off at the Lorimer stop to switch trains, I hugged him. “Good night,” I smiled.

The next time I saw him, our interaction was consistently magnetic. He gravitated toward me, positioned himself across from me at dinner, maintained eye contact, joined me when I transitioned to the conversations happening on either side of us.

Eva, ever the ruffler, was sitting next to me. “Hey [#178], how old are you?”

“I’m 41,” he said, unruffled.

Eva turned and looked at me as if to say See?

When we went to say good-bye that night, we hugged and I said, “It was good to see you.”

“Yeah, it was fun to hang out,” he said.

I stood in front of him for a few extra available seconds as everyone else walked away, creating a space of opportunity if he wanted to, for example, ask for my number.

Which leads to the second question: Was he confident enough to ask for my number?

“Yeah, this was fun,” he said. He stood on the sidewalk with me beside Metropolitan Avenue looking puzzled.

The seconds ticked by. He did nothing.

“OK, good night. See you later,” I said.

“Yeah…yeah,” he said. He paused. Maybe he sensed that he was supposed to do something.

I turned and walked away.

Signs of Hope: He was the right age, with a good job and a capacity for being attentive.

Red Flags: He definitely didn’t have an itchy trigger finger.

Turning Point: When he didn’t pull the trigger despite the fact that I handed him the metaphorical gun and then stood there in front of him as a willing target.

Diagnosis: For him: Maybe he lacks the confidence to really show up for a relationship.

For me: Now that I’ve actually managed to cultivate a healthy degree of self-love, I’m looking for someone with the same. 

Mr. Unavailable #151: BBQ Guy

Vital Stats: 5’10”ish. 42ish. Thin with spiky salt-and-pepper hair. Aesthetic: Uptown trying to be downtown. Demeanor: Just flirty enough to be hazardous.

Four days after #148’s Words With Friends forfeiture, it was Saturday morning and I headed to Eva’s beauty school to highlight my hair into more platinum submission. Eva had to hand me off to another student, a cute, lanky kid named Crayton, who, at 22, seemed to have a lifetime’s worth of dysfunctional dating under his belt. I told him about #148.

“So, he went away to Europe and came back and ignored you? I hate that. Is he cute?”

“He’s kind of dorky cute.”

“So he’s not go-away-to-Europe-and-ignore-you cute.”

“Definitely not.”

“With your blonde ambition, you have no time for that.”

Yes, no time for that. That night, Nora and I headed to a Williamsburg birthday BBQ. About two minutes into the party, I spotted a new prospect across the room. He was cute. Not go-away-to-Europe-and-ignore-you cute, but tall and thin, and, as if he’d had an accidental but mildly friendly encounter with a light socket, his salt-and-pepper hair stood gelled on end. He had a slight, almost nerdy, fidgetiness about him.

One of Nora’s Mr. Unavailables was talking with #151 but abandoned the conversation when Nora approached. “Oh, sorry, man,” he said as he leeched onto Nora to see how far he could get that night. (He didn’t get far.)

“That’s cool,” #151 said to the leech. Rejected, #151 moved toward the grill where, in hunger and indecision, I was already hovering. He cut a hot dog and took half. I picked up the other half and took a bite.

“Agh. That’s hot,” I said.

“Oh, sorry, I was about to say be careful it’s hot.”

I made some other noise of diminishing pain and said, “It’s OK. By the way, I’m Tara.”

“I’m [#151],” he said.

For the next two hours, we lingered by the grill, flirting and laughing. A former chef, #151 now put cooking teams together for a famous chef’s new restaurants. He lived on the Upper East Side but maintained his cool cred by having an office in Soho and traveling all over the world for work. I told him my dream of one day living in the Domino Sugar Factory.

“Oh, I have a great photo of that place. I took it from a boat.”

“I want to see,” I said.

“He got out his phone and began scrolling through photos. “I have 7,000 photos in here. This may take a while.”

“That’s fine, I’m patient.”

“Yeah, but this looks so rude. I’m sure people are like, ‘Look at that guy, he’s with that pretty girl, but he’s ignoring her and checking his phone.’ It’s like, ‘What’s up with that relationship. It’s looking rocky.’”

Wha? Pretty? Relationship? I went with it. “Yeah, I’m sure it looks like we’re six months in and already have nothing to talk about.” Like I would know.

“This is killing me,” he said, “I’m just going to have to get your email address and send it to you.” He wants my info.

Instead of the Domino factory, he showed me a few pictures of his travels—camel-riding in Qatar, watching the secret service in action at the White House. The way he seemed careful to not let me see as he scrolled through made me think there must have been a girl in there. But I didn’t see a ring and he didn’t mention anyone—no “we” or “our” or “one time we went.” He was even introducing me to his friends as they swung by the grill in search of food.

“If he’s in a relationship,” I thought, “he’s spending way too much time talking to me.”

Eventually, I decided to catch up with some other people at the BBQ, so I excused myself to "go to the bathroom." Moments later, I saw him don a brown leather jacket and head for the door. I waved and we met in front of the stairs.

“I have to see that photo,” I said, sensing hesitation. “Let me give you my email.”

“Oh, yeah, your information, what’s your information? And…what’s your name again, I don’t think we ever said?” A. The dude forgot my name. And B. This would have been a great time to ask for my phone number, but he didn’t.

I gave him my email address and…my name. We hugged. He left.

Nora pried herself away from the leech and we left the party. “[The leech] says that, last he knew, which was a while ago, that guy was married,” she said, unlocking the doors to her car. “But I can check with [the BBQ host], who probably knows him better.”

“Damn. I sensed unavailability,” I said. “Well, I doubt I’ll hear from him.”

“But the dude was talking to you all night.”

“Yeah, except he seemed hesitant at the end…I’m actually kind of mad now that he dominated my time. I would have liked to have spent time talking to other people…especially if he’s freakin’ married.”

Crossing the Williamsburg Bridge, I checked my phone. Lo and behold, there was an email from #151. He must have sent it immediately after leaving the party. The subject: “Domino Sugar Factory”… “Hi Tara, Found it! Great chatting with you, hope to hear from you soon. Best, [#151] 917-555-XXXX.”

“That’s odd. The married guy just gave me his phone number.”

Over the next two days, we kept in touch via email.

Me: Hi [#151] - It was great chatting with you, too. Fabulous photo! Well worth the wait. Although now I'm thinking that instead of having the spot with the smokestack, I might rather want the penthouse above the "Domino" sign. Thoughts? - Tara (212-555-XXXX)

#151: Good call, I can see it. Floor to ceiling windows all the way around and it does appear there is still an available smoke stack for a master bedroom and living room corner fireplace to keep one warm on those chilly Williamsburg winter nights. But do you think there is room for the helipad?

Me: Oh yeah, there's plenty of space on top of the building to the left. Looks like there's enough room for a pair of helipads, actually. Or do you think that would be too over the top? 

#151: Two may be a little over the top, but every penthouse deserves at least one helipad! I mean...How's a girl gonna get around? Happy Monday!

I didn’t respond. His email asked for no response and, if things were to progress, he was going to have do some asking. After all, he had my phone number; he knew I was interested.

Signs of Hope: He emailed me minutes after leaving the party.

Red Flags: Nora’s leech thought he was married. And there was something unavailable about him.

Turning Point: After his “Happy Monday!” email, I never heard from him again.

Diagnosis: For him: Nora found out from the BBQ host that #151 had a long-term, live-in girlfriend. What a tool.

For me: See. I can spot ‘em.