INTERNET DATES FROM HELL Page 6

  Although sorrow was my first emotion for him, and for his mother too, common sense was in the forefront of my thinking. Before we knew it, we were in front of my apartment building. I prayed that he wouldn’t ask me for another date. My prayers were answered. He apologized one more time, and mentioned that if I was ever in the Poconos, I should look him up. His strange laugh made me feel uneasy because I wasn’t sure if it was sarcastic or sincere. At least I was home, I was safe, and I could breathe again!

  8

  If You Can’t Stand His Voice on the Phone, It Only Gets Worse in Person

  April 1999

  Obviously the experience in chapter 4 with David from Australia wasn’t enough. I needed another dance with accents. Subsequent to my experience with Todd, I removed my profile for a few months. Time off from these experiences was what the doctor ordered. That year’s spring was cold and rainy, which allowed me the opportunity to catch up on my reading and educational research. I couldn’t remember the last time I curled up with a good novel, or laughed at some educational reformer’s diatribe regarding the preschooler’s academic disposition. There were two inches of accumulated dust on my portable rowing machine. So after a couple of months of exercising (I lost ten pounds) and literary pursuit, I felt mentally and physically strong enough to reenter the restricted waters of singles bars and clubs. After two weeks of that nonsense, my fingers again found their way back to the world of the Internet.

  There were a couple of definite no’s, including one in which a woman requested that I write to her incarcerated brother as a pen pal. Then a neurosurgeon from India who was currently residing in an affluent town in Connecticut answered my ad. He stated that he was 6’, thirty-three years old, and the head neurosurgeon of a prestigious university hospital in the metropolitan area. Although Rishy stated he was thirty-three, his photograph indicated a much older man. I chose to overlook the possible age factor, due to his deep sense of spirituality with the written word. I really liked the fact that Rishy responded in conjunction with my interests.

  When we finally spoke on the phone, his thick foreign accent made me think of my friend Akbar, the manager of a local Indian cuisine restaurant from which I frequently order takeout. The accent was so familiar that I almost interrupted Rishy with, “Light on the curry, please.” Although I was not overwhelmed by his accent at first, it became quickly clear to me that telephone small talk can be totally different from prolonged face-to-face conversations. I thought I could overlook the unpleasant voice, so I decided to give it a go.

  To no one’s surprise, Rishy appeared in front of my apartment in a brand new Mercedes SL and, wouldn’t you know it, it was my favorite color, black on black (although I’ve been told that black is not a color, but the absence of all color). Wearing a leisure suit with a polo shirt (as if the leisure suit wasn’t bad enough), I realized that this man was old enough to be my father. The only thing missing was my father’s Old Spice aftershave with the little sailboat on the bottle, although I wished he had some cologne on because he smelled like mothballs. He asked me where I’d like to go.

  I responded, “To Akbar’s, of course.”

  He responded, “Is it Indian? It doesn’t have to be, you know.”

  “I love their Indian food, plus Akbar is a friend of mine.” I replied.

  No sooner did we sit at an available table, Akbar greeted us and asked if there was anything he could get us from the bar while we waited for our waiter. Without warning, Rishy ordered for the two of us, never asking me what I wanted. Realizing that many foreign men were like this (especially older ones like Rishy), I accepted his traditional gesture. By the time Akbar returned with our drinks, Rishy had told me that he recognized something in Akbar’s intonation.

  “I am willing to wager he is from New Delhi.”

  “Why do you say that?” I inquired.

  “His inflection is of New Delhi.”

  Serving us our drinks, Akbar asked Rishy if he was from northern or southern New Delhi. When Rishy responded northern, Akbar promptly sat down at our table. He snapped his fingers twice and our waiter appeared at our table. Akbar ordered the same drink as we were drinking and went as far as ordering our meals. I quietly acquiesced. I thought to myself, “The drink is one thing, but the entree also?” Well, Akbar knew me, so I wasn’t apprehensive.

  The men downed their drinks in some odd measure of bravado; I was neither impressed nor interested in it. They then promptly ordered more drinks, both by snapping their fingers. Until that point I hadn’t touched mine, so I thought it might be due time that I did. I raised the glass to my lips, smelling it before I tasted it. It was the most awful stench from a liquid I have ever experienced, save the time I inadvertently mistook my uncle’s glass of scotch for an orange soda. Taking the slightest of sips, I immediately put my glass down, because this was the most potent drink I had ever tasted. All the while the men talked in their native language, which seemed to thicken with every sentence they spoke. By the meal’s end, Rishy was so drunk that his speech was incomprehensible. Between the accent and idiomatic traditional expressions, which he now was insistent upon using, I was befuddled. When I interjected at times for clarification purposes, he became angry. I pleaded with him, “No offense, but I have no idea what you are saying.” At this time Rishy became irate. The last thing I remember before leaving the restaurant was Akbar calming Rishy down by imploring him loudly to lower his voice. After walking several blocks and passing some belligerent homeless drunk, I decided to choose safety and hailed a taxi (if you can believe there is refuge in a New York City cab). I told the driver, who was coincidentally also of Indian descent, to take me to 34th Street and 9th.

  He said, “You are on the 34th Street and 7th Avenue.”

  “I know, I’m just not in the mood for dealing with anymore drunks tonight. Maybe you can answer a few questions for me if you don’t mind.”

  He quickly replied, “Certainly, Miss,” so I asked him:

  “Are you from New Delhi, and if so, from which part, north or south?”

  “The south, of course. I drive a cab,” He responded.

  He proceeded to tell me that those from the north are traditionally affluent. He said he was glad to be from the south, where equality between the sexes reigned. If it wasn’t for the poverty level, southern New Delhi would be a beautiful place to live. He finished by saying that in a little over a year he would have enough money so that his family could move to New York. Although he had an accent, not once did I have trouble understanding this man. He spoke the proper English to which I had grown accustomed. After paying him, we said our goodbyes and my spirit was lifted. Little did I think that a southern New Delhi cabbie would raise my spiritual awareness more than Rishy originally intended to. In the elevator of my apartment building, I realized this was the most intelligent conversation I had had in some time. If only Rishy had been half as eloquent as my cabbie friend, then who knows how different that date would have been. It’s funny to think of the nerve of that neurosurgeon!

  9

  Watch Out for Pathological Liars

  May 1999

  Thirty-year-old Rob contacted me next. He mentioned in his e-mail that he was a Hawaiian-born investment banker. Although his piercing black eyes were quite attractive, there was something deep in those eyes that bothered me. It wasn’t until the conversation on the phone that I realized what it was. It began as small talk and chitchat until the topic of birth arose. When he asked me where I was born, I told him in Mineola, New York. He responded with a cute, “If there is a Mini-ola, is there a Maxi-ola?” When it was my turn to question his location of birth, I realized what was in those eyes. As I previously mentioned, deceit can come in any form or fashion. This time it was in his answer. His answer was, “I was born on the island of Kona.” I responded, “I beg your pardon—the island of Kona?” “Yes,” he answered curtly. It was at this point that I either told him of my recent trip
to Hawaii or was about to tell him. No matter which, Rob quickly changed the subject. He wanted to meet me next Thursday evening, since Friday he had to attend a banking conference at the Jacob Javits Center. He suggested that we meet for coffee at a local coffeehouse close to my apartment.

  No sooner were we served then I realized his attractiveness superseded his photograph. If nothing else, he was a fine piece of eye candy. Even the way he dressed was impeccable. His designer shirt brilliantly matched his pants and leather loafers. He must have been an athlete because of his muscular physique. I couldn’t help but daydream.

  Sometimes when something bothers me, I have little control over how it manifests itself. Since this was one of those times, I point-blank asked the question again.

  “Where did you say you were born?”

  “The island of Kona. I thought we discussed this over the phone.”

  I inappropriately laughed, to which he reacted: “What’s so funny?”

  “I’ll beg your pardon again, Rob, but I’ve been to Hawaii several times. Kona is a city on the island of Hawaii.”

  At that point, Rob’s sharp eyes grew dull. He said he had a confession to make. He looked embarrassed. He confessed that he was actually Filipino. Before he could say anything else, I asked him if there were any more confessions. He said, “As a matter of fact, there are. I am not an investment banker; I am a teller-in-training. I am taking a couple of undergrad finance courses at NYU. They happen to be both on Friday nights.” He looked at my face for my response and I gave it to him, more in words than in countenance. I said to him, “I don’t like to be fibbed to, lied to, or betrayed in any way. It is late. I must be going, good night.”

  Although I myself never played much baseball, my two older brothers sacrificed a set of knees each to that sport. The principle they always talked about was three strikes and you’re out. I knew there were more strikes in Rob’s repertoire, but I wasn’t going to give him more than three.

  10

  If Your Date Obsesses over a Body Part, Chances Are He Has a Fetish

  June 1999

  After the last incident I decided to take another hiatus from Internet dating. For what amounted to only three and a half weeks, my respite was well deserved. As any elementary school teacher knows, the last month of the school year can drag on unmercifully. Between final assessments (academic and deportment) and every imaginable fund-raiser and year-end party with my colleagues, the last three weeks can feel like months. What seems to compound matters most is the heat. Long Island summers come fast and furious, once the calendar reads June. Those cool, wet May afternoons quickly acquiesce to unbearable humid June mornings where kids seem to melt as fast as jumbo crayons errantly left on a windowsill.

  Nothing is more satisfying than handing the final report card to the last kindergartener and subsequently watching her hand the report card to her all-embracing, patient mother. Marked by the little departure tears from most of my students (unlike the separation-anxiety tears for their parents that they displayed in the beginning of the year), June 25 is a noteworthy day for all elementary school teachers. It is on that day that we, like the kids, have mixed emotions. Part of us craves the idea of a ten-week summer vacation, but the other part spells “emptiness,” as we pack the last box of chalk away in our closets. The last thing I needed were mixed emotions regarding my social life, too.

  Normally the drive to Manhattan from the middle of Long Island during off-peak hours takes approximately sixty minutes, but before I knew it, I was in the elevator to my apartment. How did that happen? I have heard drunks talk about automatic pilot, and I’ve also read about road hypnosis while driving, but this was something entirely different. My mixed emotions practically erased the entire drive home. Maybe this phenomenon prompted me to revisit my old habit of Internet dating. Let’s face it: watching those young mothers near or about my age jubilantly jumping in the schoolyard alongside their children threw my maternal instincts into an emotional tailspin. The older I was getting, the more intense this feeling was growing. I really felt it was time that I had a little jumping bean of my own.

  Like the phantom ride home, I soon mysteriously found myself fingering the computer keyboard, activating my personal ad once again. Within thirty minutes, Francisco, a self-proclaimed Mexican-bred classical pianist answered my ad. Phew! That was fast! I think that was the quickest reply I’d ever received after posting an ad. Maybe I was being overly dramatic, since it had been over four weeks since my profile had last been viewable. Before long I found myself responding. My normal practice is to not give my phone number, but to receive the man’s phone number and call him. No sooner did he give me his number, than I phoned him. I learned quickly that not only had he recently recorded his own CD of original music, but he was also working on a second CD of legendary standard tunes. His voice complemented the photo that was attached to his email. But, as most Internet daters know, photographs can be deceiving.

  With a soft-spoken, sexy Hispanic accent, he asked if I was available that same evening, since he lived in the same neighborhood, he could be over shortly to meet me. I told him that even though I wasn’t busy, it had been my last day of school and I needed to decompress; a container of Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey, or possibly Cookies and Cream, some cool jazz, and the latest tabloid would do the trick. I told him that perhaps we could meet up the next night. We agreed to meet for a light bite and early show at a jazz club in Tribeca.

  Fashionably late is not the order of business in a jazz club, especially for the early show. He had said 9:00 PM, and it was precisely 8:50 PM when I walked through the doorway. Thank God that I didn’t wear heels because these clubs could be so dark that I could foresee falling down the first flight from the street and never being noticed. Little did I know that the sandals I wore would save me some serious time.

  Rather than join the huddling mass at the bar for their last drink before the show began, I decided to take a table close to the stage, but not too close for comfort. I can count on two hands the number of jazz clubs I’ve visited. I was concerned that he wouldn’t find me, but that concern vanished when I saw him talking on stage to the bass player as he tuned his final string. Within seconds, he eyed my table. Within a nanosecond, he was seated next to me.

  “I had another table in mind, but this is just as good,” he initially offered.

  “We can move,” I suggested, “I’m not married to this spot.”

  “No, no, this is actually better. We have a better view of the piano player,” he said in an unmistakably articulate accent.

  He looked much more attractive than the photograph attached to his e-mail. I couldn’t determine the color of his eyes, but they appeared, in the darkness of the club, to be as dark as his hair. His clothes, too, were black: a black open-necked shirt, black jeans, and a black sport coat. I’d like to be able to say that he also wore black shoes, but I thought it would be inappropriate to stare at his shoes. Even if I had, I probably couldn’t determine it, because of the lack of light. This didn’t stop Francisco, though, because before a note was played on stage, he was trying to note my feet (staring no less!).

  “Did you drop something on the floor?” I asked.

  “Excuse me, what did you say?” he exhorted.

  I repeated, “Did you drop something? You seem to be preoccupied with the floor.”

  “Oh no,” he laughed, “although it’s a bit dark, I was admiring your feet.”

  “My feet or my shoes?” I urged.

  “Your feet,” he quickly offered.

  Like most women, I’m sensitive about various parts of my body. However, I can’t ever remember my feet embarrassing me. “Feet don’t fail me now,” I laughed to myself. I pursued this issue without haste.

  “Do you have a foot fetish?” I innocently blurted.

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” he smiled. At that moment I was positive he was joking. I star
ted to laugh out loud.

  “What are you laughing at?” Francisco inquired.

  “I thought you were pulling my leg—no pun intended!”

  “No, I actually have a thing for feet,” Francisco retorted.

  Great, he was another eccentric.

  At that point I nervously laughed out loud again because I realized I hadn’t had a pedicure in over a month.

  “What’s so funny now?” he demanded.

  When I told him of my nail neglect, he challenged, “Every foot is different. Some look great with pedicures, some look great without.”

  “What do you mean?’ I said.

  “Here, I’ll show you.”

  In one hand he held the table’s candle, and in the other hand he held a digital camera and scrolled through dozens of photos of women’s feet, which he claimed to have taken that day alone!! You might have heard of “saved by the bell.” I was saved by a set—an extraordinarily long set of instrumental jazz music that fascinated “Francisco the Foot Man.” Before the set was over, I politely excused myself to go the ladies’ room, which is apparently taboo, yet Francisco’s fixation on the piano player was undisturbed by my leaving. Before I knew it, my open-toed shoes and I were at the Duane Street platform, eagerly waiting for the train to arrive. Once aboard the train I found myself curiously staring at women’s feet. What is it with these fetishes? While concentrating on feet, I realized that I actually found most women’s feet quite disturbing to look at. With a size ten shoe and flat feet to boot, I never had the problem most women suffer from, which is insisting upon squashing their feet into shoes way too small in a vain effort to prove that their feet are actually smaller than they appear. Let’s face it, there’s not much you can do with a size ten. I would rather be comfortable than vain in that department. I choose other areas in which to be self-conscious.