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…