Mr. Unavailable #98: Startling the Natives

See From Russia, With No Love, More of the (Exact) Same, Sanity Takes a Turn, The Calm Before the Storm, Fight Club, Rejection=Flattery and Neanderthal No More? for the background on this one.

Now might be a good time to reiterate that I was looking for something very specific. After taking some time to do Calling in the One and become clear on what I was looking for, I wasn’t settling for some cheap fling. My subconscious reminded me of this every now and then. I woke up on Saturday morning, almost a week after seeing the movie with #98, having remembered a dream. I don’t remember the details, but the upshot was that, in the dream, Ted Danson told me he loved me and wanted to be with me. Maybe it was his regal white hair or the obvious high level of fitness he had for his advanced age, but, for some reason, my subconscious chose Ted Danson as a symbol of stability and commitment. I woke up that morning feeling loved and taken care of.

Nine hours later, with no plans for Saturday night, I innocently texted #98.

Me: Do you want to go for frozen yogurt later?

#98: can not wait

About an hour later, I met #98 outside my building and we walked to Pinkberry on St. Marks. Things were normal, friendly until we went and sat in Thompkins Square Park. It was when I got a phone call that things began to change. While I was on the phone, he stroked my arm, rested his head on my shoulder, kissed me on the cheek.

After I got off the phone, I sing-songed, “Complicated.”

“What isn’t complicated?” #98 said. “Everything’s complicated.”

“Uh-uh, we’re friends and neighbors and I’m looking for something very specific.”

“Like what?”

I told him about my dream. “I’m looking for Ted Danson,” I said.

He laughed. “Ted Danson. Who’s that?”

I Googled Ted Danson on my phone and showed him a photo.

“Oh, he looks very distinguished, very respectable.”

“Exactly,” I said.

I didn’t completely give in to #98, but I did a little—by not exactly fighting him off. OK, I also rested my head on his shoulder…OK, OK, chest.

Except to be proud of myself that I kept him mostly at bay, I went home that night and didn’t give it another thought.

On Monday morning, Labor Day, I was dropping laundry off on the corner and someone called my name. It was #98. He was just coming back from an overnight working at the hospital. He helped me bring my laundry to the Lauderette and then, standing on the corner, he went on and on about the fight he had gotten into with a midwife, who didn’t want to reveal her ancient techniques.

I listened and then said, “Hey, do you want to go to a barbecue later?” I asked partly to get him to shut up about the fight and partly because I thought it might be fun to bring him. He told me to text him later with the details.

I met him on the corner of 3^rd Street and 1st Ave. at 3:30 p.m. It was a hot day, very hot. He was wearing a T-shirt with holes in it. "Thanks for dressing up," I said.

As we walked up 1^st Avenue to catch the L train to Williamsburg, the heavy groping began. I fended him off, as any lady would, but I could have put a firm stop to it—as in, “I’d appreciate it if you’d stop grabbing me.” But I liked the attention, so I stifled my annoyance.

On the subway toward Brooklyn, he pointed at our reflections and said, “Look, that’s us. Don’t we look good together?” Was that sincerity? Did he say “together”? Did he mean it?

And then on the walk toward the barbecue, there was more groping.

“Is it too much?” he asked.

The fact that he asked relieved me. At least he was aware he was a pervert.

“No, it’s OK. Thanks for asking,” I said. 

"It's nice to get attention," he said. 

"Yes, I like the attention," I admitted.

At the barbecue, he became decent again. Well, somewhat decent. He proved to be a fairly independent companion, getting into conversations with strangers, except his argumentative nature shined through. Eva was there, having managed to leave her dysfunctional relationship with the ex-con in Manhattan for the afternoon. Now meeting #98 for the first time, she chuckled as she eavesdropped on the debates he was getting himself into. I tried not to pay attention.

“Oh my,” Eva said, giggling.

“What did he say now?” I asked.

Eva repeated what she heard in her best gruff Russian accent, “‘There is no Russian mafia.’”

Later, #98 sat next to me and put his arm around me as he talked with some native Brooklynites. Although the natives appeared to be a little more startled by #98 than he was by them, everyone appeared mutually fascinated. Again, I tried to not pay attention.

At one point, #98 pulled me to him to get my attention and said to the natives, “Look, don’t you think we look good together? Isn’t she beautiful?”

The natives looked a bit put on the spot.

“Are you Russian, too?” they asked me.

“No, I’m suburban American,” I said.

“Oh, you look like you could be Russian.”

I imagined Russian supermodel Natalia Vodianova. “Oh, thank you,” I said.

Just before sunset, Eva and I decided to go. “I just have to wait for [#98],” I said.

“Why?” she asked. She hadn’t realized I'd brought him.

When #98 came out, he suggested we walked back over the Williamsburg bridge. Even though she appeared to be put off by his presence, Eva was game, so we started walking. #98 put his arm around me and, putting his face close to mine, said, “Don’t we look good together? Shouldn’t we be together?”

Looking disgusted, Eva said, “I hope not. Not with those holes in your shirt. I think Tara can do a lot better. And you’re drunk.” And then she looked at me as if to ask where I’d found this guy.

Signs of Hope: What was up with all his talk of togetherness?

Red Flags: Although I could see past the Neanderthal in him, clearly, others couldn’t. Maybe I was ignoring the obvious.

Turning Point: When the extreme groping started. I really didn’t know what to make of it.

Diagnosis: For him: He’s grabby, that’s for sure. But what he wants is unclear to me.

For me: Maybe I’m fooling myself. I really do want to believe that he wants to be together. At any rate, this was going to be an interesting walk home.