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.