INTERNET DATES FROM HELL Page 11

  He said he had chosen his favorite restaurant in midtown for dinner. Great! I thought I was on my way to some greasy spoon diner with incessant Elvis playing in the background. Before we knew it, we were standing in front of Chico’s—a Harley Davidson Café—wannabe in the high 40s and Tenth Avenue. Sure, there was no Elvis playing. AC/DC and Motley Crue were blaring out on the street. To believe I would have to stand in a line to get into a place like this was unimaginable (not to mention that the degrees never rose, nor did I feel warmer after a twelve-block jaunt). Out of nowhere, an enormous tattooed man in a tank top motioned for us to come forward off the line. “No waitin’ fa you, my brotha. Go right in.” Matt never explained his relationship with this man, nor did I want to know.

  Once seated, I realized what it might be like to sit in “Biker Heaven” (my Hell!). Everywhere I looked there were motorcycle parts, guitars, and music memorabilia hanging askew. Wonderful, I thought to myself, while staring at a Steppenwolf poster where John Kay and his group gave the finger in unison to the viewer. My mind raced. How do I get myself out of this one? Do I use a toothache, a headache, a backache, or perhaps menstrual cramps (which no man can ever understand)? What made things worse was overhearing a couple seated behind us talking about the New York Taxi and Limousine Commission calling a strike earlier that evening.

  “How do you like this place?” Matt interrupted.

  “Interesting, if you’re into all this,” I responded.

  “How can ya not be?” He yelled, “Waitress, two double J.D.’s straight up.”

  I didn’t know what a J.D. was, nor did I want one at the time, let alone a double to boot. This guy had some nerve. He was ordering me what he was drinking, which was probably some awful whiskey. But with the clientele around me, I decided not to cause a stir. If J.D. was whatever he reeked of, what was the Godawful fish smell I had detected in the lobby? I decided to ask him there and then. He laughed at first and proceeded to explain. He was part owner of a fish market on South Street. He continued to describe the family-owned business, begun in the late 1800s, he being the fourth generation. At a breakneck pace, he ranted about fish, motorcycles, and his favorite movie, Easy Rider. I found myself nodding like a demented workhorse stranded in a pasture.

  After an hour and a half of this tortuous monologue, I reminded Matt that I needed to get home since I had work the next day. “So soon?” he yelped, “the party’s only beginning.” That was it; it was now or never. I had to put my foot down. I told Matt no, which he apparently was unaccustomed to hearing. I even offered to pay for the meal as long as we could leave at that point. I noticed a complete change in his countenance. He was as red as a tomato.

  “I may look like a derelict to you, but I make six figures, and I run a fish company at South Street Seaport. I can at least afford to pay for dinner!”

  Smiling warmly, I apologized for my curtness.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Matt said, “I’ve been through this before.” After a couple more exchanges, Matt politely offered to walk me home. I told him it wasn’t necessary because I knew the bus schedule, and if I hurried I could get the 10:35 south.

  “You don’t mind?” Matt asked.

  “Not at all, so enjoy yourself. You look like you’re in heaven here.”

  “Sorry it didn’t work out, Trish.”

  Before I knew it, I was standing at the bus stop waiting for the bus to arrive. “With a little luck,” I thought, “the MTA won’t also be on strike.” After ten minutes of shifting my weight from one foot to the other and a hundred “brrrrr’s” in between, the bus pulled up and the door opened.

  “Warm enough for you?” the bus driver asked. All I could do was smile, find my metro card and take the nearest available seat. The bus and the people were inviting. Before I knew it, I was a block from my apartment building. The frigid temperature slapped me as I exited the bus. I scurried as quickly as I could to my apartment building, only to find Ralph finishing a cigarette as he held the door open for me.

  “Home early?” he asked.

  “I’ll tell you tomorrow, Ralph; I am just too tired and cold to talk about it.”

  As I approached the elevator, I thought I heard Ralph make a “vroom vroom” noise the way a five-year-old would, playing with his toy motorcycle. I couldn’t wait to get into my pajamas and warm bed.

  18

  Don’t Date Someone Who Lives at Work

  April 2001

  As seasons change, so do people. I am no exception. In my brief thirty-four years on the planet, I have learned that my persona is multifaceted. Coincidentally, my inner selves emerge with each equinox and solstice. With the impending spring of the year 2001, I found myself going through another change. I realized that my winter wasteland with the artistic types had not been productive (or at least, not at that point in my life). It was back to the nine-to-five types.

  Ted responded to my profile with a very “normal” e-mail. He wrote that he worked at a well-known New York university as a sports coordinator. As a hobby, he enjoyed playing the guitar and would regularly get together with a few guys to jam. He came from a well-to-do family from Greenwich. The father, a renowned pediatrician, also taught premed courses at a local university. His mother was a registered nurse at his father’s hospital. Ted claimed that his parents met when his father was an intern and his mother was a candy striper at the same hospital in which they both still work. I thought to myself, “A musician with two medically trained parents living in Greenwich—what could go wrong there?” Having experienced the admirable study of nursing for two years, I immediately felt good vibes.

  We exchanged pleasant phone calls during the week. Each time we spoke, however, his cell phone would break up multiple times. When I asked Ted to call me back from his home phone, I sensed his anxiety.

  “Oh, alright, umm, sorry about that. I’m due for an upgrade on my cell phone anyway.”

  It was at that point that I knew something was off. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but it was seemingly more than just a phone issue. The following morning I received another phone call from Ted, and along with it, the same problem. This time he sounded as if he was calling from Bangladesh, not from Connecticut. My curiosity got the better of me and I said, “I thought you were going to call me back on your home phone.” The deafening silence that followed concerned me.

  “Are you still there, Ted?” I inquired, thinking it was another cell phone reception glitch.

  “I’m here,” he said curtly.

  I decided to let him continue the conversation, and after a pregnant pause of a good thirty-five seconds, I asked him again.

  “Are you still there, Ted?”

  “Yeah, I am, already!”

  “Is there something wrong, Ted? Why the tentativeness?”

  “Trish, something came up, ah, so I’ll call you later,” Ted hurried.

  “Much later, hopefully,” I thought to myself, “because this is getting too weird. Either he has the oldest cell phone in creation or he picks the worst places to make his calls to me.” I wasn’t going to give it a second thought. With Easter rapidly approaching, I turned my attention to one of my favorite holidays of the year. Not that I need an excuse to buy a new outfit (no bonnet, please), but Easter is the best time for two reasons: The pastels of the season, along with the warming weather, spell relief from the cold, dark winter that is truly behind us. Secondly, the festive notion of rebirth and renewal is what I enjoy the most. Unlike Christmas, there’s less obligation, stress, tension, and the need to placate others. In addition, being single on Easter is not disparaged by others like being alone on Christmas, New Year’s Eve, and Valentine’s Day. I like Groundhog Day and Arbor Day for the same reason. After a four-hour Bloomingdale shopping fix, I came home with a sense of rejuvenation. Another plus resulting from impulsive shopping stints is the opportunity to donate my old and outdated clothing to charity (who am
I kidding—I’ll never fit into size 8 again!).

  While I was rummaging and making room for my new spring ensembles, the phone began to ring. Instead of falling victim to my old bad habit of immediately answering the phone, I was willing to give my new caller ID contraption its first workout. Realizing I hadn’t preset my message machine to four rings, it didn’t pick up after four rings like usual. Good, I thought to myself; this gives me more time to recognize the number. No luck. I did not recognize the number. Just then the phone stopped ringing. The nice thing about this caller ID is that it immediately stores the last number until the user erases it. Walking back to my closet, I heard my cell phone ring. The same number appeared there. Who could this 212 number be? I hoped it was not another telemarketer! However, what telemarketer would know both my home and cell number? I decided to let my voice mail cover this one. A minute later, I retrieved my voice mail.

  “Trish, this is Ted. I’ve been trying to call you over the last hour. I tried you on your home number, but you weren’t there. I’m calling from home, and my cell phone’s battery is charging. The number is 212—.”

  “That’s odd, because 212,” I thought to myself, “is a city number! He told me he lived in Connecticut.” Now I knew that something was more than just odd with Ted. Ultimately, I decided to call information and determine what that number was. After finding out from information that the 212 number was the student union building at the university where he worked, I became overly suspicious. I decided to call him “at home.”

  “Ted, this is Trish. I got your message.”

  “Oh, Trish, I’m glad you called. I forgot to ask you a question.”

  “Shoot,” I said.

  “I’ve been running this by my mom and she wants to know which nursing school you attended,” he said.

  Running this by his mom? Which nursing school I attended? What is wrong with this guy? It was time for me to be more assertive.

  “Are you at home now, Ted?” I asked.

  “Yes and no.”

  “What do you mean? If your mom is there and she’s that interested, I would love to tell her myself!”

  “Ah, well, I have two homes. The one in Greenwich is more of a weekend home, and the other is temporary.”

  “What does that mean?” I pried.

  “Umm, well, it is really hard to find a reasonably, affordable apartment in New York City, so I decided to just crash in my office at the college for a little while.”

  “You’re kidding!” I laughed.

  “Trish, college positions don’t pay well.”

  “But, Ted, this is the weekend, so shouldn’t you be up in Greenwich now?”

  “Yes, but I had to work on this summer’s catalog.”

  At that point he had redeemed himself by telling the truth. Although I found it a bit bizarre, he did sound sincere, and I still wanted to meet him.

  “Trish, are we still on for brunch tomorrow?” Ted inquired.

  “Yes, I will meet you at noon.”

  All things considered, the brunch went exceptionally well. We decided to make another date, for a dinner, and went out a few nights later for some Mexican food. We were fond of each other and continued to date. Our time together included dinner dates, nights at the theatre, the latest films, and working out at the gym. He even took me to the gym at the university where he worked. He gave me a tour of the university and confided in me that he had actually lived in his office for over a year. Over a year! Now that was really weird. What would a son of a wealthy Greenwich doctor be doing living in an 8’ by 10’ office? I wanted to know details, so I asked him, “How does this work?”

  “You see, I keep a sleeping bag under my desk with a few changes of clothes. Since my office is next door to the gym in the sports complex, I shower in the locker room before the coaches get in at six or after everyone leaves late at night.”

  “What about the maintenance staff?” I queried.

  “Oh, they’re all friends of mine. They think I am a workaholic. I also keep my office locked.”

  At that point I questioned whether he was insane or just a cheapo. I concluded that he was a little of both!

  Just then Ted’s cell phone rang. Answering, Ted turned to me and said, “Trish, I have to take this call. It’s important. It’s the athletic director. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Ted scurried down the hallway and up the stairs until he disappeared. To pass the time, I checked my e-mail on his computer. As I was checking my e-mail, I noticed that his computer was part of a LAN (local area network). Out of curiosity, I checked his history. To my surprise, I found that he had visited several porn sites. Oh no, here we go again! The porn sites were mostly of barely legal teens and nurses. To think that he worked around young college students, not to mention his mother being a nurse. What would she think if she knew? When Ted came back in the room, he caught me with a horrified look on my face.

  “The fact that you live in your office is one thing, but this compulsive obsession is way more than I can tolerate. I thought we discussed my legacy and bad experiences with guys much like yourself!” I bellowed.

  “Wait a minute. Why are you judging me? Every guy visits porn sites once in a while,” Ted retorted.

  “Yes, Ted, but not sites with photos of barely legal teens and nurses. Your mother certainly wouldn’t approve, would she?”

  “Well, that was a low blow,” Ted snorted.

  “Talk about an Oedipus complex,” I thought to myself. The situation was really getting freaky.

  “Look, I am not looking for sympathy; I got kicked out of my home for this and other things,” Ted replied.

  “I don’t care to know the details. Your computer is part of a LAN. People lose their jobs every day due to company-installed spyware programmed to catch people like you,” I informed him.

  “You’re making me out to be a criminal. What do you mean by ‘people like you’?”

  “Sorry, Ted, it is getting out of control. I am supersensitive about this sort of thing. I know that, although you made a few bad choices, you’re right. You’re not a criminal. I have no right to judge you.”

  “Maybe you should just go,” Ted concluded.

  As I walked to the subway, I began to resign myself to the thought that the world was filled with misfit boys like the misfit toys in the classic tale Pinocchio. Then again, at least it was obvious when Pinocchio told a lie.

  19

  Don’t Date a Biter

  April 2003

  Nearing the one-year anniversary of 9/11, the most heinous attack ever made on American soil, I slowly emerged from the cocoon I had unconsciously spun. Most New Yorkers, at first, rallied around each other and became closer in the months following the attack. However, as the year progressed, I noticed more and more of my fellow New Yorkers detaching themselves from each other in the effort to insulate against the horrors they had suffered. I too became more and more distant as the months elapsed. After watching one of the most important financial buildings belonging not only to New York City but also to the world, destroyed in a matter of minutes, my sense of self-importance and need for companionship paled by comparison. Internet dating was the last thing that concerned me at that point in my life. However, after a year and a half of quiet solace, I decided that loneliness and self-denial would never bring back the thousands of lives lost or the buildings that were destroyed. Solitude solves nothing, I decided.

  It was at that time I decided to reenter the electronic dating game. I received a very romantic response to my profile from an Italian man named Paulo from Rome. He wrote that he had enjoyed my profile the most because it was filled with richness of culture, passion, and adventure. He explained that the majority of American women seemed very cynical and lacked creativity. The image Paulo attached was as qualitative as any I have ever seen on the cover of GQ. Dark hair, piercing green eyes, five-o’clock
shadow, just the right amount of chest hair, and toned biceps protruding from his designer white T-shirt completed the picture. Studying architecture at Cooper Union on a scholarship,

  Paulo appeared much younger than his stated age of thirty years. Although most people would have given their right arm to excel in the family-owned olive oil business as Paulo claimed he did, he had decided that a second career was in order. As a child, he had proven his love for Venetian architecture to anyone who knew him. Paulo described his summers in Sicily and his winters in Palermo from the ages of six through twelve. From the articulated sand castles to the dioramas he constructed, Paulo’s love of architecture was noteworthy. It was time, at the age of thirty, to pursue his first love. He stated that there were very few students near his age. As a result, he considered online dating. After a few good experiences, he was looking for a great experience.

  We spoke on the phone and our conversation lasted for over an hour. His Italian accent allowed me the opportunity to fantasize enjoying espresso at a corner café like the ones in the Piazza Navona. Perhaps riding a Vespa on the Isle of Capri or even sailing through the canals of Venice in a gondola might cure what had previously ailed me. Even just the beautiful change of scenery could lift my spirits and drag me out of the destructive doldrums that had plagued me over the past six months. Nevertheless, we agreed to meet at a beautiful, architecturally sound Catholic Church close by. Paulo had chosen this church because of its traditional Italian motif.

  As I approached the church, I saw Paulo sitting on the third step, smoking a cigarette, Leonardo DiCaprio—like. He wore the same ensemble that he had worn in the photo he sent me. However, he forgot to mention that he was only 5’7”. Had I known, being five foot ten inches, I would have worn flats that day. Instead, in the heels I had chosen, I now loomed nearly six inches over him. Nonetheless, I enjoyed our conversation immensely. He asked me if I would be interested in seeing the inside of St. Francis of Padua’s chapel, to which I responded, “Certainly. Not only have I heard mass here before, but I’ve attended a christening here as well.”