Mr. Unavailable #148: George W.'s Doppelgänger

Vital Stats: 39, 5’11”. Audio engineer with his own commercial sound business. Aesthetic: He wore pale-colored button downs and pants, pale sneakers and had an “I just got off my bike” mussed look. Demeanor: Like he’d been through enough to know that he was in a good spot in life.

I arranged to meet #148 at Ost. I was nervous. I’d only been platinum for 48 hours, so I was still exceedingly self-conscious. I wore a strapless flower dress and black, heeled sandals to give my hair a full glamor effect. When I walked up to him on the corner of 12^th and Ave. A, I detected a look of satisfaction. Relief set in. We said hello and hugged.

Ost was closed for a private event so we went to Café Pick Me Up and sat out front looking at Thompkins Square Park. Looks-wise, there was something young George W. about him — square face and blue, squinty eyes. He was a lot thinner than he looked in his photos and maybe not as tall as he’d said he was. He was nice. He was normal. He was a Democrat. He was from Milwaukee but had been in New York — primarily Brooklyn — for years. He lived alone. In his own apartment.

As I sipped my coffee and he his beer, a drunk guy stumbled by asking for change. A homeless man walked by with his cart of belongings. A transvestite slinked past, giving him the eye. “I feel like we’re having a very East Village experience,” he said.

We were. And we weren’t. Because in a neighborhood teeming with red flags, there were none at our table. He was cute. And maybe a little nerdy. But engaged. I liked him. Not too much but just enough. At the end, he paid and we hugged good-bye in front on the café.

“This was fun. Would you want to get together again?”

“Yes, I would,” I said. “That would be great.”

I called Kevin later to admit my only hesitation. “I kind of feel too glamorous for him,” I said.

“Jeez-us!” Kevin said. “We’ve created a monster.”

The next day, #148 texted asking if I wanted to get noodles on Saturday. A guy who can plan four days in advance. It does exist.

Signs of Hope: He seemed pleased with me. I felt pretty pleased with him.

Red Flags: When Ost, which I had picked, turned out to be closed and we were trying to figure out where to go, he said, “Well, I don’t know. This is your neighborhood.” There was something in his tone.

Turning Point: There were no definitive moments during the date but perhaps he was growing on me.

Diagnosis: Potentially available.