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.

Mr. Unavailable #148: Fried-Chicken Date

See George W.’s Doppelganger and The Back-Up Planner for the background on this one.

“I don’t think you’re unavailable.” This was Kevin talking.

“Your only problem is that you think you have a problem.” This was Eva talking.

“Look at us. If any people are unavailable, we are.” I’m not sure which one said that, but it didn’t matter. Kevin was in his second year of single-dom and Eva had just buried her on-again, off-again cheating ex-con pseudo boyfriend, who’d ODed. 

“Maybe you just don’t like him,” Kevin said.

“I just need to keep going and see what happens. Maybe he’ll grow on me." It wasn’t the best outlook to have when approaching a third date, but it was the best I could do with what I had to work with.

I met #148 outside the Lexington Avenue armory. He looked cute. Again, I was hopeful. At the ticket counter, I pulled out my wallet as we got the tickets. He didn’t shoo me away like he was supposed to—like I wanted him to. “Oh, thank you. I’ll get dessert later or something,” I said, rescinding my almost-offer as if he had shooed me away. It had soured things. It was only our third date and he’d done the inviting. In my mental dating guide, it was way too soon to be going Dutch. 

We walked into the darkened armory and I knew exactly what I was in for. The only light was on a small semi-circle of chairs in the center, while the rest of the cavernous hangar, which felt like it took up an entire block, was darkened. Prime make-out space. We sat in some chairs to listen to the 20-minute sound loop. After it was done, we walked around to listen to the speakers hanging from other parts of the ceiling, which lent different sounds to different spots in the room.

Lo and behold, just as the squawking of a murder of crows reached a crescendo above, #148 came up behind me, turned me around and kissed me. I mechanically kissed him back, putting my arms around his skinny frame and then, after he’d turned away, wiping his saliva from my mouth.

Though far from turned on, I wasn’t quite ready to give up on myself—or him. Outside the armory, we decided on dinner at the Shake Shack in Madison Square Park. I’d never been there. We waited for the 6 train downtown and as the train pulled into the station, he plugged his ears with his fingers. “Sometimes the trains are too loud, so I have to cover my ears,” he said as we got on the train.

Why did he just tell me that? I thought. It only added to his wimpy George W.-ness. Look at it this way, I told myself, if you start to like him, that will probably become really adorable. I looked at him, willing myself into adoration.

The line for the Shake Shack wrapped around the block. “We can go to Hill Country Chicken instead,” he said. “They have amazing fried chicken.” As we approached the restaurant, I began to invisibly sulk. It wasn’t a real restaurant. It was a grab-a-tray and pay-at-the-register type of place. Maybe it was quality fast food, but it was still fast food. In my mental dating guide, this was not an acceptable third-date dinner option. Again, at the register—the moment of truth—I pulled out my wallet. As I began to offer cash, he began to accept. Once more, I rescinded. “I’ll get dessert,” I said.

Maybe I was being unreasonable. Maybe I was expecting too much. And then Evan’s voice echoed in my head—Evan, the quintessential gentleman. “Why don’t guys just pay? It’s such an easy way to earn brownie points when starting to date someone.” Maybe I wasn’t being unreasonable, maybe #148 just wasn’t for me. I made sure to spring for dessert and continued to try to look at him as if I were a stranger watching him from across the room. He’s nice, I thought. He’s cute.

At 10 p.m., he said he had to go home—to pack, he said. Even though for 75 percent of the date, I’d been quietly rejecting him, I now felt a sting of rejection. Leaving so soon?

“I’m taking a cab,” he said. “I could drop you at your place.” He grabbed me as we waited for a cab and kissed me, tongue flailing, pressing himself against me. The best way to describe my reaction was: flattered, but yuck.

He dropped me at home and went on his way. Gone to Europe, he spent 10 days in a state of suspended animation, giving him an artificial air of unavailability. He became more assertive, more interesting, more attractive.

At my birthday dinner a few days before he was to get back, Nora, still single, too, was talking about how, in relationships, the passion usually fades anyway, so maybe it's more important to find someone you can talk to, and laugh with. I thought of #148 sitting across from me at the fried chicken place. He fit that description.

The day #148 got back from his trip, I eagerly anticipated his next text. Or call. Or something. But the only word from him came via Words with Friends—when he canceled our game. He was gone.

Signs of Hope: He wanted to kiss me. And I didn’t exactly bat him away.

Red Flags: I was expending a lot of energy trying to be attracted to him.

Turning Point: When he dumped me over Words With Friends.

Diagnosis: For him: Could he sense my lack of interest? Was he turned off that I didn’t pay? Was he not really interested? Was he unavailable? Was there someone else?

For me: Even though my ego took a hit, honestly, the dude did me a favor.