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.

Mr. Unavailable #148: The Back-Up Planner

See George W.’s Doppelganger for the background on this one.

#148 was doing everything right. He texted the day before our Saturday date to firm things up.

#148: Hope u had a good week. So tmrw let’s meet at ipudo at 8. If the wait is crazy I got a backup plan

A backup plan? Who’d have thought that that would ever occur to a thirtysomething New York male—well, I didn’t, but, clearly, it’s possible.

I put on a girly coral-colored sundress and flowery sandals to counteract how comparatively overly put together I felt on our first date. Waiting in front of the restaurant, I was nervous. Would I like him when I saw him again? And then he came out of the restaurant. Oh, he’s cute, I thought. I can do this.

“Our wait is an hour and a half. They’ll buzz this thing when our table is ready.” He held up a big plastic coaster. “I know of a bar around the corner. We can go for a drink there until it’s time. Or we can go with the backup plan. Another ramen place nearby.”

“I’m up for a wait,” I said.

“OK, we’ll just come back in an hour,” he said.

Set among the sports bars and movie theaters of the southeast Union Square area, the bar around the corner was one of those finds that people like me can never find again—people like me who only have enough room in their brain to store one joke at a time. People like me who get lost in the West Village even after being in New York for a dozen years. People like me who are so distracted by their internal relationship thermometer (How do I feel about him now? How does he feel about me now?….And how do I feel about him now?) that they forget to keep track of where they actually are.

All I knew was that we were below street level in a place that felt like an old speakeasy. And I was feeling like I liked him and like he liked me. Because he was a sound-engineer guy, we talked about music and the opera and commercial tracks he’d produced. After an hour, we headed back to Ipudo and worked our way through the crowd to find out how close we were to getting a table. #148 was hesitant. I sensed fear. It was as if we were in the wild and I, the lioness, was watching her potential mate hunt wildebeests with the lion pack. Except, instead of barreling ahead to sink his teeth into the targeted wildebeest, he slowed down, looked around hesitantly and let the rest of the pack take down its prey.

Here, the hostess was the prey. He held back. I was an unimpressed lioness. A seat in the bar area open up and I went and sat down, leaving him to find his courage.

Eventually, our table was ready. My feelings about him remained mixed. On one hand, I was impressed by his knowledge of ramen and all its trappings; he’d spent some time in japan, so he knew his noodles and broth. On the other hand, when he leaned close and put his arm on the back of my chair, I felt myself shrinking away from him. They’d seated us at a sort of low bar in front of a mirror. I avoided looking at our reflection. I wasn’t crazy about what I saw.

After dinner, he suggested a bar on 2^nd Avenue. On the second floor above a store, it was something out of Casablanca. He asked me if I wanted a drink. I said yes. And then he kissed me. As soon as he stepped away to wade into the crowd at the bar, I turned and groaned and spotted about five other guys I’d rather be kissing. He eventually came back with the drinks and found us seats by the pool table, winning some ardor when he rustled up pool table time for us. I tried to talk myself down:

OK, Tara. Now, look. If you were at this bar and you saw him from across the room, would you think he was cute? I looked at him as he leaned over the pool table to make a shot. Yes, you would. Still, I found myself steering clear of his kisses. A little while later, he walked me home and I gave in to a minor make-out session in front of my building. It was underwhelming. His tongue lashed all over like a dog working out how to eat peanut butter.

He asked if I wanted to get together on Thursday for a sound installation at the armory. He wanted to go because he was flying to Europe on Friday and would miss it otherwise. Again, he had a plan—a third-date plan. I was impressed. “That sounds like fun,” I said.

Signs of Hope: I knew that, if he hadn’t been available to me, I might have found him attractive.

Red Flags: I was having a hard time finding him attractive.

Turning Point: The kiss. If only it was good…

Diagnosis: For him: He seems to like me. He seems available.

For me: But do I like him? Or is this what my unavailability looks like?

Mr. Unavailable #149: Miracle on 51st Street

Vital Stats: 37, 6’. Worked in sales. Aesthetic: Dressed to impress, summer version. Demeanor: “I’ve got this covered.”

We’d made plans to meet on Wednesday after work. I suggested the Rink Bar at Rockefeller Center—partly because I wanted to be outside on a nice summer night and partly because I worked at 50 Rock by 51^st Street. All I’d have to do was throw on lipstick and take the elevator down six flights.

I texted him when I got there. He said he was on his way. I ordered a seltzer with lime and fidgeted in my seat. The sun was sinking over the plaza and the Rink Bar DJ played some Pitbull or Flo Rida or Rihanna—my recent faves. The scene was set.

#149 walked up. Trim, tall, confident, faintly tanned, suave in a pale, linen suit and scruffily groomed with a short-trimmed beard.

He moved a stool close and sat down, his legs straddling me. He touched me as he spoke. Every gesture of his met a limb of mine. My leg. My arm. My hand. I caught him scanning me—up and down. He had that energy. The kind that made me sit up and pay attention. The kind that told me to be on alert because something really exciting was about to happen. I tingled.

Two years ago, my interpretation of the tingle would have been “attraction.” I would have hung on his every word, been thinking about how I could ensure that he would like me. What would I say, what would I do? But from where I was sitting this day—maybe because of all I’d been through, or the decision I’d made to find something of substance—my interpretation of the tingle was “flee.” Like an organ transplant gone wrong, my body was rejecting him. My body was telling me to run.

We continued talking, sharing where we were from, where we lived, sisters, brothers. It was all fairly routine get-to-know-you chatter, but I had the unmistakable sense that he wasn’t really there.  Like part of his mind was working at hiding his true self. If he even knew what that true self was.

Remembering his comment about his ex-girlfriends from our phone call, I attempted to snap him into the moment. “So what was that thing you said about your ex-girlfriends? That they were reclamation projects?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said. Whatever barricade he had up was now breached. The floodgates opened and I felt the surge of an oncoming over-share. “The reclamation projects...that was a nickname my best buddy came up with…there were two of them…there was the kind of bad one and then there was the really bad one...major drama…the first one I met at a bar…”

He went on. And on. I lost track of which ex-girlfriend was which, but the upshot was that one of them was a stripper, one of them was dangerously jealous, neither of them ever had any money and both had gotten kicked out of their own apartments. They’d, in short order, moved in with him. Eventually, a level of crazy intolerable to even him developed and he had to kick them out. As he spoke, I pictured an interchangeable pair of scantily clad brunette vixens, drunk and holding old-fashioned telephone receivers into which they were threatening suicide.

“Want to get out of here?” he said, looking itchy.

“Sure,” I said.

“Let’s go to Del Frisco’s.” At Del Frisco’s, he asked what I wanted to drink. “Not another tonic water,” he said.

I nodded.

“Do you not drink at all?”

I shook my head. For the first time, he exhibited a degree of gravity. I got a glimpse beneath the surface. “I don’t know if this is going to work,” he said.

“We don’t have to stay,” I said, smiling. “We could totally go. It’s fine.”

“No, let’s stay for a drink. We might as well.”

I laughed. “OK.” Whatever kind of dissociative disorder he may have had, I really didn’t care what he thought or even what we did. He was a traveling circus attraction and I was along for the ride. I knew he’d hang around only as long as the circus was in town, and that, after tonight, I’d probably never see him again, so I said, “Just so you know, I am pretty much the exact opposite of one of your reclamation projects.”

I left it up to him to decide if it was a good thing or a bad thing. He said nothing about that, but his appetite for sharing—about his foibles, his troubles, his dad issues—was insatiable. He revealed information about online dates he’d been on and how some of the women looked thin in their photos, but when he met them, “They were, well, a lot thicker.”

There were a few more women who were more “thick” than advertised. Such talk segued into a description of tactics that helped him get out of dates as quickly as possible. “Usually I’d just come up with some reason I had to leave—I had to work early, or that I thought I caught a stomach bug. I could tell that they were into me, but I had to get out of there.”

“Hey, are you hungry,” he said after we’d neared the end of a second round. I must have passed some kind of thin/thick acid test. “Want to get a burger? We could go to P.J. Clarke’s.” He took my hand as we left the bar and held me close when he hailed a cab.

Dinner was more of the same. We were there, together, eating burgers and fries at P.J. Clarke’s. But it was as if we were at opposite ends of a very, very long table. There was a gulf between us that no amount of removed table leaves could close. It was fun running around the city with a cute guy and all—he grabbed me and kissed me on the corner of Broadway and 61^st—but I couldn’t get at who he really was. I doubted he knew. He got off the subway at 34^th Street, leaving me with ideas of coming out to his place in Weehawken, or hanging out in the East Village with his friend who owned the Belgian Frites place. I doubted I’d ever hear from him again. He was too elusive, too ephemeral.

I called Eva after exiting the subway at Bleecker Street. “A miracle has happened,” I announced. “I’m now actually able to spot unavailable men.” I hoped I’d never hear from him again. Because I feared I wouldn’t be strong enough to resist his unavailable allure.

Signs of Hope: Shockingly, after the date, #149 took several available-man actions, including texting me that night (I froze in conflicting feelings of fear and flattery.), calling the next day, texting the next, and the next, calling again. He was definitely keeping in touch.

Red Flags: In that week after the date, he had a lot of last-second plans for getting together, all of which fell through because, well, I had plans.

Turning Point: We spoke on the phone one Sunday night and he revealed to me more about his job woes and I proved an excellent listener. Or so I thought. He asked for my email address and then, after we got off the phone, I read it. The subject line was, “This you?” and the message read, “Ok, hello. This is me. Godspeed.” I never heard from him again.

Diagnosis: For him: Completely unaware and unavailable. As Kevin said, “He sounds like he said some kind of douche-y things.” And as I replied: “No, he IS totally douchey, and he doesn’t even know to hide it. It’s kind of part of his charm.”

For me: It’s a miracle. I can spot unavailable men.