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. 

Mr. Unavailable #98: Crossing the Bridge

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? and Startling the Natives for the background on this one.

We hadn’t even gotten to the foot of the bridge when Eva accused #98 of being intoxicated.

“He’s not drunk. He’s totally sober. I’ve known him for years,” I said

Eva looked skeptical. “But he’s got holes in his shirt.”

“Believe it or not, he’s a doctor,” I said.

She looked at me in disbelief.

“Really. Seriously,” I said.

#98 must have enjoyed being thought of as a bum because, having proven himself up for a good debate at the barbecue, he did nothing to defend himself.

“Then you need to buy some new shirts if you want to be with Tara,” Eva said to him. #98 howled.

It took us a while to find the Williamsburg bridge, which gave Eva plenty of time to realize that he wasn’t drunk, he was just an argumentative Russian who didn’t know how to dress himself. It also gave her plenty of time to hassle him about his shirt, which he thought was hysterical.

As we crossed the bridge, the sun was setting. #98 put his arm around me as we walked, kissed me on the cheek, tried to coax me into kissing him on the lips, generally treated me as if he was on the verge of taking the next step. 

“You’re a doctor, you must have a lot of money, I’m sure you can buy a shirt that doesn’t have holes,” Eva said.

“Yes, I have lots of money I don’t know what to do with it.”

“You could take me out on a date,” I said.

“Yeah, you could probably take her to a pretty nice place, too,” Eva said.

“Yeah, um, we could dress up,” I said.

“I took you out on a date and you picked up garbage from the street and carried it around,” he said.

“That wasn’t a date,” I said. I turned to Eva. “We went to see a movie and I had to find a box to mail my nephew’s birthday present and there were a bunch in front of Starbucks.”

“Do you always pick up trash on your dates?” he teased.

He was evading the real issue, which was: what exactly were his intentions? And was he ever realy going to take me on a date?

We got to the Manhattan side of the bridge, dropped Eva off at the entrance to the subway and walked up through the Lower East Side. Arms around each other, I was hoping that, considering the overtures he appeared to be making, he would offer up more clarity.

He walked me to my apartment. Leaning on a bicycle harnessed to a signpost, he pulled me to him. Up until that point, we hadn’t actually kissed on the lips. There was a cheek kiss here, an ear nuzzle there, but, kissing? Too much. Somewhere deep inside, I'd drawn a line. As soon as he said something to indicate this was more than what it was so far, I'd cross the line.

But his lips—a pretty little pouf—looked so darned inviting. I considered for a moment. Maybe I could draw a new line. Maybe as long as no saliva was exchanged, then it was OK. My new line: kissing, no tongue. 

And so we did. It lived up to its pretty pouf of a promise.

I would like to say that crossing the bridge was some kind of metaphor for what happened next. But it wasn't. After a couple of minutes, I began fishing for my keys. I smiled coyly. He smiled back. Nothing explicit was said. Nothing implicit was implied. And then I turned and went in and he turned and went home.

Signs of Hope: He's trying to claim me—in front of people.

Red Flags: His intentions are still unclear.

Turning Point: None yet. Even though he professes to wanting to be together, his actions toward me say otherwise.

Diagnosis: For him: He can’t seem to quite pull the trigger. Yet.

For me: I’ve told him what I’m looking for. And I’m sticking to it.

Mr. Unavailable #98: Startling the Natives

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

Now might be a good time to reiterate that I was looking for something very specific. After taking some time to do Calling in the One and become clear on what I was looking for, I wasn’t settling for some cheap fling. My subconscious reminded me of this every now and then. I woke up on Saturday morning, almost a week after seeing the movie with #98, having remembered a dream. I don’t remember the details, but the upshot was that, in the dream, Ted Danson told me he loved me and wanted to be with me. Maybe it was his regal white hair or the obvious high level of fitness he had for his advanced age, but, for some reason, my subconscious chose Ted Danson as a symbol of stability and commitment. I woke up that morning feeling loved and taken care of.

Nine hours later, with no plans for Saturday night, I innocently texted #98.

Me: Do you want to go for frozen yogurt later?

#98: can not wait

About an hour later, I met #98 outside my building and we walked to Pinkberry on St. Marks. Things were normal, friendly until we went and sat in Thompkins Square Park. It was when I got a phone call that things began to change. While I was on the phone, he stroked my arm, rested his head on my shoulder, kissed me on the cheek.

After I got off the phone, I sing-songed, “Complicated.”

“What isn’t complicated?” #98 said. “Everything’s complicated.”

“Uh-uh, we’re friends and neighbors and I’m looking for something very specific.”

“Like what?”

I told him about my dream. “I’m looking for Ted Danson,” I said.

He laughed. “Ted Danson. Who’s that?”

I Googled Ted Danson on my phone and showed him a photo.

“Oh, he looks very distinguished, very respectable.”

“Exactly,” I said.

I didn’t completely give in to #98, but I did a little—by not exactly fighting him off. OK, I also rested my head on his shoulder…OK, OK, chest.

Except to be proud of myself that I kept him mostly at bay, I went home that night and didn’t give it another thought.

On Monday morning, Labor Day, I was dropping laundry off on the corner and someone called my name. It was #98. He was just coming back from an overnight working at the hospital. He helped me bring my laundry to the Lauderette and then, standing on the corner, he went on and on about the fight he had gotten into with a midwife, who didn’t want to reveal her ancient techniques.

I listened and then said, “Hey, do you want to go to a barbecue later?” I asked partly to get him to shut up about the fight and partly because I thought it might be fun to bring him. He told me to text him later with the details.

I met him on the corner of 3^rd Street and 1st Ave. at 3:30 p.m. It was a hot day, very hot. He was wearing a T-shirt with holes in it. "Thanks for dressing up," I said.

As we walked up 1^st Avenue to catch the L train to Williamsburg, the heavy groping began. I fended him off, as any lady would, but I could have put a firm stop to it—as in, “I’d appreciate it if you’d stop grabbing me.” But I liked the attention, so I stifled my annoyance.

On the subway toward Brooklyn, he pointed at our reflections and said, “Look, that’s us. Don’t we look good together?” Was that sincerity? Did he say “together”? Did he mean it?

And then on the walk toward the barbecue, there was more groping.

“Is it too much?” he asked.

The fact that he asked relieved me. At least he was aware he was a pervert.

“No, it’s OK. Thanks for asking,” I said. 

"It's nice to get attention," he said. 

"Yes, I like the attention," I admitted.

At the barbecue, he became decent again. Well, somewhat decent. He proved to be a fairly independent companion, getting into conversations with strangers, except his argumentative nature shined through. Eva was there, having managed to leave her dysfunctional relationship with the ex-con in Manhattan for the afternoon. Now meeting #98 for the first time, she chuckled as she eavesdropped on the debates he was getting himself into. I tried not to pay attention.

“Oh my,” Eva said, giggling.

“What did he say now?” I asked.

Eva repeated what she heard in her best gruff Russian accent, “‘There is no Russian mafia.’”

Later, #98 sat next to me and put his arm around me as he talked with some native Brooklynites. Although the natives appeared to be a little more startled by #98 than he was by them, everyone appeared mutually fascinated. Again, I tried to not pay attention.

At one point, #98 pulled me to him to get my attention and said to the natives, “Look, don’t you think we look good together? Isn’t she beautiful?”

The natives looked a bit put on the spot.

“Are you Russian, too?” they asked me.

“No, I’m suburban American,” I said.

“Oh, you look like you could be Russian.”

I imagined Russian supermodel Natalia Vodianova. “Oh, thank you,” I said.

Just before sunset, Eva and I decided to go. “I just have to wait for [#98],” I said.

“Why?” she asked. She hadn’t realized I'd brought him.

When #98 came out, he suggested we walked back over the Williamsburg bridge. Even though she appeared to be put off by his presence, Eva was game, so we started walking. #98 put his arm around me and, putting his face close to mine, said, “Don’t we look good together? Shouldn’t we be together?”

Looking disgusted, Eva said, “I hope not. Not with those holes in your shirt. I think Tara can do a lot better. And you’re drunk.” And then she looked at me as if to ask where I’d found this guy.

Signs of Hope: What was up with all his talk of togetherness?

Red Flags: Although I could see past the Neanderthal in him, clearly, others couldn’t. Maybe I was ignoring the obvious.

Turning Point: When the extreme groping started. I really didn’t know what to make of it.

Diagnosis: For him: He’s grabby, that’s for sure. But what he wants is unclear to me.

For me: Maybe I’m fooling myself. I really do want to believe that he wants to be together. At any rate, this was going to be an interesting walk home.

Mr. Unavailable #98: Neanderthal No More?

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

It was Saturday morning after my date with Mr. Clueless and I was at The Bean trying to write but really looking to distract myself. I texted #98 to tell him he should swing by.

Let me rewind and refresh. About eight months before, #98 and I had stopped talking after he’d come onto me—brushing his hand along my cheek, putting his head on my shoulder, etc.—then, upon not getting an eager response, he’d picked a fight (specifically, he’d accused me of being selfish and self-centered because I took myself to the gym).

The not talking had lasted about four months, ending when I had a mouse problem and realized I needed him. Despite his Neanderthal-ness, I always knew his heart was in the right place and he’d help out a friend in need. We let bygones be bygones. He’d come over and retrieve my dead mice, I’d make tea and we’d talk.

We were about six months into being friends again when I texted him from The Bean (On a side note, once muscle-bound, he’d stopped exercising completely and everything had gone to flab).

“I went on some dates,” he said in his Russian accent, which effortlessly removed English grammatical articles as well as, no doubt, articles of women’s clothing.  

He told me about his dates from a Russian dating site: “I liked one of them—she seemed very sweet—but she didn’t like me,” he said. I was proud of him. I already knew about his tendency to either sleep around or fall in love with crazy women, so I thought maybe he was turning over a new leaf, trying to actually go on dates with nice girls.

And then I told him about my recent dates: “One seemed really interested but then I never heard from him and the other couldn’t even spring for snacks.”

He shook his head. “This is terrible, just terrible,” he said.

The next night, he texted me to ask if I wanted to go see The Dictator, saying that if I got the tickets online, he’d pay for them.

We met up outside The Bean and walked toward Union Square. Early for the movie, we killed time getting coffee across the street at Starbucks. I had to mail my nephew’s birthday present and was looking for a box. There were a pile of them in front of a Starbucks, so I grabbed one. #98 teased me all the way back to the theater.

“You’re going to carry your box around for the rest of the night? You pick garbage up off the street and carry it around? Do you always do this…” It was the equivalent of a boy pulling a girl’s hair on the playground. So, like the girl on the playground, I hit him.

After the movie, he asked if I wanted to get something to eat. He’d already put away a caramel macchiato, a bucket of popcorn and a Coke, but he still wanted more. I got the feeling that it wasn’t necessarily more food he wanted, but rather, more time with me. He liked me, but I was also no dummy. I knew how lonely he was. It was a loneliness I with which I was familiar.

We went to the Japanese Place above Stuyvesant Place—me, #98 and my box.

“I got so fat,” he said, putting a hand on his belly. “I started riding bike to work. I will be skinny in no time.”

His self-improvement project was admirable. Between that and trying to date nice girls, maybe my Russian Neanderthal was rapidly ascending the evolutionary chain.

And then, after the restaurant, as we walked home, as I held my box, he put his arms around me—all the way around me and the box, which I now held as a kind of security blanket. Just like eight months before, I wasn’t sure how to react. I was attracted to him, sure, but I knew well enough to leave it alone by now.  

I focused on keeping my arms around my box and pretended that this is what guy friends do—walk down the street with their arms around you and your possessions.

We hugged good-bye in front of my building and that was that.

Signs of Hope: Over and over, for the two of us, there have proven to be no signs of hope.

Red Flags: When he was in no hurry to go home and then…

Turning Point: …when he put his arms around me.

Diagnosis: For him: Maybe he’s lonely and attempting to go down our dead-end of a road again. Or maybe he’s changed?

For me: I really want to believe that he’s changed, but, if I’m smart, I won’t go down this dead-end of a road again.