Mr. Unavailable #143: Real or Reflected

See The C Word for the background on this one.

Having just insulted my date, #143 and I got off the 6 train at 86^th street and walked over to the Met. If I had demeaned his income, he shook it off pretty well because, inside at the ticket counter, he proudly slapped $2 down for admission for both of us.

“Don’t you like how authoritatively I give my dollar?” he said. I smiled. We looked around, and, like smug natives, scoffed at the tourists paying the full $20 suggested donation.

Being an architect, #143 was interested in the Saraceno sculpture on the roof garden. We got conflicting directions from different guards and eventually located an elevator that would take us to the top. Crowding onto it with a bunch of out-of-towners, there was something of a we’re-in-this-together vibe. The two of us. In the gigantic Met. Trying to find our way. Together. Maybe you can do this. He’s kind of cute. He’s definitely fun. And he clearly doesn’t take things too personally, I thought.

Once on the roof, I remembered the last time I was up there—when I was with #88 seven years ago. In the annals of my heartbreak, he’s pretty much at the top. The contrast between my feelings for my date then (strong) and now (weak) was so stark, every time #143 moved near me, I moved away. Afraid he might try to kiss me or something, I acted as if closely surveying the sculpture. 

I walked around it—a malformed Rubik’s Cube made of metal and twisted out of shape. Its octagonal surfaces were either reflective or open, so I was never quite sure if I was looking at the mirror image of the people looking at the sculpture or staring directly at them. Through one of the openings, I spotted #143 on the other side. I smiled and made a slight waving motion, but he didn’t respond. And then I realized he was next to me, looking at me. A moment later, I was saved by an announcement saying the museum was about to close.

“I guess we’d better go,” I said.

We took the stairs down and out, emerging onto the Fifth Avenue aftermath of the Puerto Rican Day parade. For those who don’t know, the PRD Parade has a bad reputation (for mild riots, occasional gang rape, that sort of light criminal fare), which inspired a line of inappropriate jokes between #143 and I that loses everything in the retelling. I laughed, however. A lot.

The police were just starting to remove the barricades, so we pick our way through them, the litter, the straggling families and the drunks yelling incoherently.

“Alice and Harry are going to be like, ‘So, how was the date?” And you’ll say, “Well, he talked about how little money he made, took me to the Puerto Rican Day parade and made rape jokes.” I laughed. See, he’s funny, I thought. He asked me what I wanted to do next. “Coffee in your neighborhood somewhere?”

“I know! Ice cream,” I said.

We hopped the train and headed back downtown to Emack and Bolio’s on Houston. I sprung for ice cream and then he walked me home. It was a real date. With a meal, an event, an ice cream “nightcap” and a walking-home. I hadn’t had one of those in a while. The sun was setting, summer was imminent, we’d survived the aftermath of the Puerto Rican Day Parade intact. He hugged me good-bye and asked if I wanted to get together again. “Yes, that would be fun,” I said.

He seems to like me. Maybe I can like him, too. Maybe I can do this. Maybe I really can.

Signs of Hope: We joked, we laughed.

Red Flags: I couldn’t imagine wanting to kiss him but maybe I would later.

Turning Point: Toward the end of the date, when he was telling making me laugh.

Diagnosis: For him: Like he said earlier in the date, he has “the stink of commitment” on him.

For me: I have hope, but are my feelings organic or just mimicking his? Real or just reflected?

Mr. Unavailable #143: The C Word

Vital Stats: 5’7.5”ish, 38, freelance architect and rock-climbing enthusiast. Aesthetic:  Urban casual with a whiff of outdoorish-ness. Demeanor: Deliberately carefree with a hint of self-consciousness.

What Happened: On Mother’s Day, out to dinner at Cookshop in Chelsea with Kevin and two married friends, we had just finished gawking at Will Ferrell at the next table over when one of the married friends, Alice, said to me, “Oh, we have someone we want to set you up with.”

“What about me?” Kevin asked.

“We don’t have anyone for you right now,” Harry, the other married friend, said.

The setup guy was a rock-climbing friend of theirs. A freelance architect, he’d gotten out of a five-year relationship six months before. Familiar with how my dating history diametrically opposed what I was looking for, Harry said, “He’s a long-term relationship guy.” They showed me a photo of him, a somewhat distant shot of a somewhat rumpled-looking guy.

“He’s looks cute?” I said.

Kevin turned to me to reiterate the more crucial element of Alice and Harry’s effort. “He’s a relationship guy,” he said.

About six weeks later, I got a nervous voicemail message from #143. “I’m a friend of Harry and Alice…They gave me your number…Thought I’d call to say hello…Give me a call when you can…Cheers, bye.” We played a few rounds of phone tag and finally caught each other on a Thursday night. We had the usual first-conversation conversation—what we did for work, where we lived, etc. I told him I thought it was cool he was an architect.

“Being an architect isn’t really very sexy,” he said.

“It seems sexy to me. You must have blueprints strewn around your apartment.”

“Yeah, I’m buried in blueprints,” he said. I hesitated, unsure if he was putting me on. “That was said with a sarcastic font,” he said. I laughed. “The real reason I like what I do is that I get to work for a few weeks and then travel for a few weeks. I mean, I just spent three weeks on a boat off of a remote Caribbean island.”

Now I was self-conscious, for the last two years I’d let my exotic-travel cred lapse. “Anyway, what’s your weekend looking like?” he asked.

We made plans for Sunday brunch at Saxon and Parole on the Bowery. “So, when we meet up, how will we spot each other?” he asked.

“Oh, you don’t know what I look like?”

“Nope, but I’ll send you a picture of me. Hold on….”

He took a self-photo and texted it to me. I got it a few seconds later and laughed. He’d taken it from above, so it was a good view of his head—longish, graying hair, big blue eyes and big nose. He’d actually composed the photo so it looked somehow modular—with a background slice of bright carpeting and an edge of a dark-colored coffee table—just what you’d expect from an architect.

“That’s a great shot,” I said, making no mention of his appearance. While I wasn’t immediately attracted, there was no reason he couldn’t grow on me. After all, he was a relationship guy with a stamp of approval. 

I found a photo of myself from a West Point tour I’d taken a few weeks earlier and sent it to him hoping it made me appear slightly more adventuresome. “Oh, you’re cute!” he said enthusiastically.

Sunday was sweltering. Despite the heat, I threw on a sundress and flip-flops and took a west-side walk with Eva, bringing a squirt gun with me so we could spray ourselves every now and then to keep cool. It was too hot to bother going home and freshening up with heels and makeup, so I met him in front of Saxon and Parole still in my flip-flops—and still carrying.

We hugged, went in and started chatting at the bar. Beads of sweat emerged from his forehead, rolled down his cheeks and leapt from his chin to the bar. He dabbed at his face with a napkin but the sweat persisted. I thought it was the heat until he said, “I’m sorry. I’m really nervous. This is my first blind date ever.”

Except for the squirt gun in my bag, I was totally disarmed. I reached over, touched his shoulder and said, “Aw, it’s OK. You’re doing great.”

We were seated at a table a few minutes later. “How have you avoided online dating?” I asked.

“I’ve been in relationships with people I’ve met in the real world. Long relationships,” he said. “Yes, I have the stink of commitment on me.”

I smiled. There it was. In all its triple-syllabic glory. Commitment. When the bill came, I reached for my purse. He shooed me away. “Don’t even think about it.” He paid and said, “Want to go to the Met? Let’s grab a cab.”

Not only did he use the C word and refuse to let me pay but he was about to spring for a cab to the Met. Now I was really hoping he would grow on me. Finding no free cabs, we hopped the subway uptown and continued our career discussion. He told me he’d had an interview recently to be the assistant to Ron Perlman’s private architect.

“It would have paid a fortune,” he said. “But I would have been in an office all the time and I’m kind of attached to my lifestyle.”

His sacrifice sounded so impressive, I assumed the job he’d turned down would have paid him an exorbitant salary, so I didn’t think it impertinent when I asked, “How much did it pay?”

He looked embarrassed. “Oh, I don’t want to tell you,” he said.

“Now I really want to know."

He hesitated and then said, “It would have paid $90,000.”

Surely, this was said with a sarcastic font. I hit him on the arm and said, “Shut up. How much would it have really paid?”

He looked at me, frowning. He was serious.

“Oh. Oh, well, yeah, that is a lot,” I said. “From the build-up I thought you were going to say it paid millions.”

It was too late. The unintentional belittling was done.

Signs of Hope: He has all the qualities of a gentleman.

Red Flags: I’m having trouble feeling attracted to him.

Turning Point: When I insulted his less-than-$90,000 income.

Diagnosis: For him: He’s a relationship guy, so he sounds pretty damned available.

For me: What's my problem? I’m not attracted to him and I just insulted him. I’m doing great in the availability department (that’s a sarcastic font).

Mr. Unavailable #142: Un Uomo Piccolo

Vital Stats: 46, 5’10”, a business owner living in Hoboken. Aesthetic: Nicely outfitted in clean button downs and cargo shorts. Demeanor: Easygoing, friendly guy who appeared to have his shit together.

#142 was looking promising. He was an OKCupid guy and we were a 95% match. He was cute in his photos — clearly fit, with a full head of hair and striking Italian features. There was even a photo of him with his family in Italy. In it, they were dining at a place overlooking a dramatic cliff to the sea. He had a quintessentially Italian name, too, which was rife with nickname opportunities. And the last line of his profile said this “Message me if: You've seen something here you like and think maybe you'd like to know more. If you're looking for something serious. If you're looking for someone to share your life with.”

Someone serious. At last.

We’d had one round of get-to-know-you emails in which he used complete sentences and both a greeting and salutation when, one Tuesday after work I was uptown at a Starbucks waiting to meet Kevin before I, him, Eva and Eva’s ex-con quasi-boyfriend went to a Silversun Pickups show at The Late Show with David Letterman. I checked my phone and there was an email from him.

#142: Can I ask you something out of the blue? Just how spontaneous are you? Want to go see Spiegelworld with me tonight at 7:30? I've got an extra ticket and it might be a fun way to meet up and it is a pretty cool show even if it is super short notice.

Here’s the thing, I love Spiegelworld. (Kevin and I went a few years ago.) Usually, I find last-second planning irritating but this wasn’t that. This was pure, justifiable spontaneity.

Me: Damn! I totally would have gone with you to Spiegelworld. I saw that show a few years ago and loved it. I'm actually going to see a band play (the Silversun Pickups) on Letterman tonight. A friend put me on the list. Bummer! Ah well, next time.

Typical. I don’t have any cool plans for weeks and then two awesome things happen on the same night. (And of course I had to tell him I was on the list.)

We agreed to get together on Saturday instead. If his first date offer was Spiegelworld, I was excited to hear how creative his next date idea was. We talked on the phone on Friday and made a plan for Saturday. A coffee date in my hood. Hum ho.

Although the date lacked the hoped-for ingenuity, I was still excited about meeting him. On Saturday, I picked Van Leeuwen, an ice cream place on 7^th Street with good coffee. Maybe he’d spring for ice cream, too. With a trip to Italy to meet his family in mind, I dressed up in a saucy dress and heels. He texted me when he got to the place and I told him I was on my way.

A few minutes later, I turned right onto 7^th Street. And then I turned right into the store. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a small man sitting at the counter by the door. I needed a moment. I pretended not to see him. He was small. Not midget small, but overall small. Narrow might be a better word. Or small-boned. Or even diminutive. Lilliputian, maybe. 

He caught my eye and stood. We hugged hello, weakly. I was taller than him in my heels, but it wasn’t his lack of height as it much as it was lack of... body. I sat on the stool beside him. 

We had a pleasant enough time. He sprung for coffee and ice cream. He told me about his business—running adult sports teams in New Jersey—and about how he competed in various mud obstacle races, which, seriously, sounded like a lot of fun.

And then, as our coffees were drunk and the last bit of ice cream was a puddle in its cup, our time together neared it’s end and he said, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but this is kind of a conundrum for me. You look just like an ex-girlfriend of mine…. We’re still friends and everything. In fact, I ran into her a few weeks ago and we caught up and it was great. But I’m kind of taken aback by the resemblance.”

OK, A: I felt really self-conscious and extremely put on the spot.

And, B: What exactly was the “right” way to take that? I mean, he saw my photos and, clearly, he has a type, so he couldn’t really be that surprised.

The conversation took a nosedive. Somehow, we eventually changed the subject and left things intentionally up in the air with a hug on the corner and no solid plans to meet up again.

Signs of Hope: Before we met, he was perfect for me.

Red Flags: Does anyone else think it’s weird that he told me I looked just like an ex-girlfriend and he was in a “conundrum”?

Turning Point: As soon as I saw him: None of his ex-girlfriend issues matter because I’m not interested.

Diagnosis: For him: I'm too reminiscent for him.

For me: He's too mini for me.

Mr. Unavailable #141: Sic

Vital Stats: 5’10”, 45, Some kind of public speaker. Demeanor: As if desperately trying to not seem desperate. Aesthetic: As if his casual look was overly planned.

What Happened: Maybe it was female intuition, maybe it was plain old hard-won experience, but I knew enough not to count on anything with #98, so the same day #98 turned off the charm, I already had a coffee date set up for the afternoon. Unfortunately, things started off with #141 with a series of Seinfeldian annoyances:

First, I asked if we could meet at 4 and he asked if we could make it earlier because he had to be somewhere that night, so we agreed to meet at 3:15. That wouldn’t have been so bad, except… Second, he was late. Like, 15 minutes late. That wouldn’t have been so bad if I’d found him attractive, but… Third, he had oddly big teeth (caps?) and… Fourth, he had an odd kind of speech tick. Both his S’s and his Th’s sounded like Sh’s. There was something ocean-waves-sound-machine about it. It might have been soothing except it came with a spitting sea spray effect and… Fifth, he wasn’t as tall as the 5’10” he said he was in his profile—although they never are.

We met at Colombe on Lafayette, he bought me a coffee (“Can I get you shomeshing to drink?”) and we found a seat near a window. I wasn’t feeling terribly interested, so I let him talk. It turned out he had some kind of job that involved public speaking (there’s a joke in there somewhere). And he’d been in a heavy metal band back in the ‘80s that had opened for big hair bands that had opened for even bigger hair bands.

He also talked a lot about his online dating experiences. “I’m shure it’s very different for you, but I only get maybe five meshagesh a day.” At that point I began to wonder how closely acquainted he was with the truth. Even with my most flattering, flaw-diminishing photos, I don’t get anywhere near five messages a day. And then he also had a lot of crazy dating stories: someone who tried to coax him into partaking in bondage with her, someone who got really weird on a second date "She was talking like we were already in a relashionship, like she wanted me to meet her father..." 

After about an hour, the plans he supposedly had with friends never materialized, so I said I had to get to the gym.

“Can I get you a shecond coffee for the road?” he asked.

He was beginning to sound a little desperate, but, hey, free coffee. “Sure, I’ll take another iced mocha.”

He got my coffee and then I walked him to the subway. “We should get together again,” he said.

“Sure,” I said, giving him a hug. He texted me a few hours later.

#141: “Was nice to spend tim (sic) with u. Part 2??”

It took me two hours and three friend consultations to respond. Kevin said not to force myself if I wasn’t feeling it. Another guy friend said, “I think it’s always worth a second date.” A girl friend said, “Maybe give him one more chance.”

I texted back.

Me: “Sure”… I texted. And then I felt bad that it didn’t sound more enthusiastic, so I added, “It was nice spending time with you, too.”

He texted back immediately.

#142: ;))).  Good answer. I’m glad!!!

Five days later, at 12:49 a.m., with a second date still not planned, he texted.

#142: Fast hello. Let’s make a plan soon. Sleep well.

Both irked and mildly creeped out, I responded at a normal time 12 hours later.

Me: Sounds good.

An hour later, he texted again.

#141: Hey Tara. U just popped on my Facebook as a friend suggestion. I think we have a mutuel (sic) friend. Anyway. I sent u a friend request. Except (sic) me if u want ;)

That was weird. I popped up as a friend request? How random. I was curious as to who our mutual friend might be, so I went to his profile to see the mini mutual-friend photo collage on his page. But there was none. I really wanted to know who they were, so I accepted his friend request. Once I did, I still couldn’t see any of his friends. They were blocked. That was weird.

Between the friend suggestion that supposedly “popped up” and the fact that he seemed unable to actually make a second date, I was becoming moderately creeped out.

He texted me a few hours after I accepted his request.

#141: Thanks for the Facebook. Wow. U in makeup. Ummmm breathtaking!

Feeling a little uncomfortable, I replied six hours later.

Me: Thanks!

#141:  Haha ur welcome. Ps not that u didn’t look grate (sic) with out lol. But uh wow lol.

OK, I don’t know about you, but super-enthusiastic compliments mixed with a bunch of LOLs in texts from a guy I went on one date with who then not only did not make a plan for a second date but stalked me on Facebook makes me feel really, really uncomfortable, i.e., completely creeped out. Six days after the coffee date, I was out to dinner with Nora and said, “I have no idea how he found me.”

“Could he have figured out your last name?” Nora asked. The question gave me chills.

“I really just want to de-friend him,” I said.

“Do it.”

I opened Facebook on my phone, went to his profile, de-friended him and immediately felt a sense of relief. And then, in case I ever got confused as to who was sending me creepy texts, I change his name on my phone to “Sic.”

Signs of Hope: At least I was willing to give him a second chance.

Red Flags: He totally blew his second chance. And, not only was he not really 5’10”, but, when I checked his profile later, he was also not 45, but 47.

Turning Point: When he "found" me on Facebook.

Diagnosis: For him: Sic.

For me: Sic-ened.

Mr. Unavailable #98: Who's Deluded?

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

In the week after the flirty bridge walk, every time I thought of #98, warm feelings bubbled up from my core. Eva had taken some photos of us with my phone during the walk, so I flipped through them every now and then, smiling at the one where his bear arms were thrown around me and I struggled, smiling, as he tried to kiss me. I knew I’d hear from him again, I just didn’t know when.

Five days later, on Saturday morning around 11:30 a.m., he texted me.

#98: how are you

Me: I am good. How are you?

#98: do you wanna go eat?

We met down on the corner of 3^rd St. and 1^st Ave. As soon as I walked up to him, I knew something had changed. He didn’t hug me, kiss me, grope me, nothing. The only thing that hadn’t changed was his holey T-shirt.

“Let’s go to Schiller’s,” he said. “They have very good brunch. Want to go there?”

“Sure,” I said.

As we walked, I told him about my last week at my old job; he told me about the latest at the hospital. It was one of those crushingly hot pre-summer days when you’re not exactly prepared for the heat—or anything else.

At brunch, we talked about stuff—books, good writing. He was argumentative, as usual, but he was also distant. Instead of being a supportive listener, which he had been known to do, he challenged me with everything I said. I was feeling too hot and too held at bay to be challenged. But it made me realize something—I didn’t want this. I didn’t want this at all. I didn’t want to be with someone who was hot and cold, and either argumentative and challenging me or keeping me at a distance.

As it often is, the deciding moment came when the bill came. He fished out the cash for his portion of the bill and I figured out the rest and put everything on my card. If he was sending a message, I was getting it.

Walking back toward the East Village, I stopped being so, well, available. I didn’t start any conversation, and when he asked me questions, I’d give him terse answers. The tables were turned. As I watched him struggle to engage me again, I thought to myself—and not for the first time—I can’t believe that fucking works. Sadly, being a cold bitch gets results.

But that’s not the kind of relationship I want. As we walked up Ludlow Street, I ran into a shop owner guy I knew in front of his store and started talking to him, becoming suddenly animated. #98 went into the store next door to buy a T-shirt. As I said good-bye to the shop owner, Kevin called. I gave him the lowdown in short phrases with suggestive tones.

“I’m with [#98]…We just had brunch,” I said flatly.

“Oh, really?”

“Oh, really.”

“Uh oh, not good?”

“Nope. Nothing doing. Nada. Zilch.”

#98 came toward the front of the store with his purchase.

“OK, well, I’ll give you a call in about ten minutes,” I said, turning animated again.

We left the store and I slipped back into silence. #98 put his arm around me. I saw my opening and took it.

“So, what are we? Are we friends or what?”

“I want to get in your pants,” he said.

Though it was crass, I still felt vaguely flattered. “Oh, well, that’s not what I’m looking for. I want a boyfriend. Why don’t you want a girlfriend?”

“I want a girlfriend…I’m waiting for something really special,” he said.

I experienced a dull thud somewhere inside.

“Oh, thanks, I feel flattered,” I said, feeling vastly unflattered.

“That’s very hard to find, what I’m looking for. It’s something really special.”

By now, we were walking at a fast clip up 1^st Avenue and had reached his apartment building. He stopped and I kept walking. Waving behind me, I said, smiling, “Have a nice day.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him blow a kiss.

Signs of Hope: He asked if I wanted to get brunch.

Red Flags: There could only have been more distance between us if he were physically thousands of miles away back in his Russian homeland.

Turning Point: When he told me he was looking for something special.

Diagnosis: For him: He’s not just unavailable, he's deluded. Maybe he did it intentionally. Maybe he was looking to close the door on anything real ever happening. Or maybe I'm giving him too much credit.

For me: Maybe I was the deluded one—by making the mistake of giving him another chance.