Count Stalkula.
Dating can be so tedious. Particularly when you arrive at the date---at the agreed-upon meeting place and you realize, within microseconds, that the person with the big smile and the big ready hug, standing there greeting you resembles so very, very little of the person you met last Friday night.
You don’t want to admit just how much what a man wears matters to you. But it does. Damnit. It does. At the very least, what they’re wearing shouldn’t look like they picked it up at GoodWill. But this strange and clueless person is not only wearing black on black ( as if channeling Sprockets without the turtleneck), each item is also terribly faded. And the ill-fitting pants are baggy, akin to the kind sous chefs wear in the kitchen, and now, no longer black, but almost gray. And the shirt is equally faded and pilly. With bad buttons. And there’s this awful, worn out belt. A belt that even in its heyday was nothing shy of terrible. And let’s not forget those exceedinlgly in full bloom gin blossoms adding sprinkles of color to his clearly unhealthy pallor. Yes, that’s right: gin blossoms. And no, we are not talking about the band.
(Social alert: alcoholic freakhead who can’t afford new pants. And biology alert: bad genes. Run).
Let’s be honest here, Jessica. Ask yourself this simple question: Why does he look nothing like the fantasy person you crafted in your spindly little brain over the past 48 hours? Could it be the oh, say, 4 refreshingly heavy-content craft beers you drank the night you met? Or was it that round of mystery shots that you were coerced into drinking because the pretty blonde, black eyelinered Graffiti Junktion bartender said in her insanely short-shorts (that you wanted to hate her for wearing but couldn’t because they looked too good on her), “Come on girl, all the proceeds are going to charity---for sick kids. You’re doing a good thing.”
Wink wink. Nudge nudge. All the cool kids are doing it! An altruistic opportunity: help sweet innocent babies with a painless down-the-hatch shot? But of course!
So you, along with your fun, smiling friends, power it down. Whatever it was. Something raspberryish. Something fizzy and scarily not at all strong tasting. Those are always the creepers. Like fruity jelly beans and little pink candies. Just a sweet mere nothing that kicks you in the ass before you can stop yourself from saying “another round please!”
As luck would have it, it was damn chilly in February in Orlando and this person you met was wearing a light parka.
Light parkas make you think of home. Your original home. The freezing cold state of New Hampshire. And, as luck would have it even further, this person went to college at Harvard. Where you also studied.
Ok, Jessica, let’s be even more honest. You didn’t ‘study at Harvard.’ You took a playwriting class at Harvard Extension School in 1993. (So? What’s your point?) You are a sucker for sporty men in parkas who ski. Or at least shovel snow. But, even more so, you’re a sucker for guys with actual, useable brains in their heads. Not that going to Harvard makes you smart actually. Because it’s just a school and true intelligence is much, much deeper than SAT scores and ‘my dad bought a building so I could continue our legacy.’ That being said, this person was also from another country.
Most people seem to be allured by foreign accents. And you’re no exception. They’re kind of mysterious and exciting. At least in sound. A man’s throaty tenor of utterances just seems to elevate ordinary topics of conversation. And, inspired by the exotic supermodel side, certain guy friends have told you that any girl with a Dutch accent is positively---well---um, foreplay.
In any event, that sinking feeling in your chest at the arrival of the so-called date is hard to brush off. You wish you’d scheduled an emergency phone call from a friend---expertly timed 20-30 minutes in---where you can feign a dramatic ‘oh my gosh, wow, I have to go rescue my poor friend. She had a fight with her boyfriend and he has her keys. She’s locked out of their place and I have to go console her. RIGHT NOW. Soooooo sorry! I’ll call you!’
You used to do this back in the late 90s in Los Angeles. Your brother was your emergency call. He’d give you a shout within a reasonable amount of time into the date and, more than a few times, you were high-tailing it out of there only to meet him for drinks at El Cholo a few blocks from home. Escape. Pure freedom and immediate celebration—chin chin dear brother, bottoms up--- from the hideous politeness of enduring painful time with someone there’s no way in hell you wanted to keep talking to, much less kiss---ever.
And now, here you are, years later, married then divorced, then wrapped up for more years in long term, go-nowhere relationships that you haven’t had have the strength—or perhaps courage---- to end for whatever reason. You’re single. Again. And you know how this has happened. But you wish it wasn’t this way. But it is.
So now, here you are, standing here having polite chitchat with gin blossoms whose once resonant and intriguing voice now sounds only like the Count from Sesame Street.
One….two….ahh ahh ahh…three….four….ahh…ahh..ahh. Five….
The briefly charming man in familiar parka now standing before you is just unimaginably abhorrent. You don’t know how you can endure this date for very long.
So.
You don’t.
Yes, you eat. Yes, you drink. And then you drink some more. And, unfortunately, he doesn’t get more interesting. He absolutely never gets sexy. It’s true, he does have a brain. But his intensity is obnoxious. And not once, but twice, at dinner, he grabs your hands and caresses them.
Yes.
Gag.
Caresses them.
You feel profoundly nauseated and look for a reason (any reason at all) to pull your hands away. You pretend to look for something in your handbag, take a sip of your drink, scratch your nose. He clearly has no sense of personal boundaries. But worse, he has no sense of body language. You know the tricks. Crossing your legs in the direction of the person you’re with indicates interest. Cocking your head and playing with your hair are coy ways of flirting without saying a thing. But you don’t do any of these gestures. Your entire body is situated away from him. Your head is front and center dead-on. No indicators of ‘yes, go for it.’ Not one.
You announce abruptly that you’re tired and you need to go home and work. You have a deadline. This is not entirely untrue. Except the deadline is 3 days from now. If the Count were at all hot, you’d be willing to procrastinate until day 2.5 and work until the wee hours. Alas, the idea of work seems like the best idea in the world. He says “Wow, you said you were stressed. I had no idea.”
(You mentioned at the very moment you set eyes on him that night that you had trouble relaxing after work. What you really meant to say was that you had trouble relaxing after you realized what a doofus you had to have dinner with).
Adding insult to injury he--- of the faded-black-pants-bad-buttons-gin-blossoms who has suddenly become the Sesame Street Count---does not even pick up the tab.
You split the bill. And he was the one to ask you out. Gross. Just the cherry on the already bad sundae. Please take it back.
You discuss this with friends afterwards. Not because you ever want to go out with the Count again (even if he had paid) but just out of modern questioning: is that what guys do? Really? They don’t even pay anymore? The general consensus was that nice guys, yes, indeed, gentlemanly guys who ask you out still pay. And, even the truest gentlemen will pay even if some modern babe asks them out. Thing is, you’ve never asked a guy out. Ever. You have no problem splitting a bill or even paying with someone you’ve been dating for a while or, of course, a friend. But a guy who asks YOU out and has romantic interest in you had damn well better pay or else risk looking like a major cheapskate. Seriously, come on.
Anyway, you manage to escape quickly and cleanly with an attempted quick hug that he disgustingly lingers on with and then, horrors, tries to get a kiss but you turn your head and he gets your cheek which you immediately want to wash. It’s like you can still feel his lips touching your face and you just feel ill.
So you get home, wash your face, put on some sweats, pour a cold glass of home-safe-thank-god-wine and plunk down---ahhhh---- on the couch, and begin to flip channels---when the first text message comes in:
10:06 pm “Really enjoyed the evening. Time flew by. When we were saying good-byes it somehow felt familiar. You are special.”
No. Please no. These are the things you want to feel when your heart is racing and you’ve just kissed the most amazing man on the planet, someone who makes you laugh, and sees you for who you are, even in that moment of madness, of proximity, of chemistry, of animal attraction and breathlessness. Even that.
Not this. How can he have missed your complete and utter lack of interest?
So you don’t reply.
The following barrage of texts is too painful to record so, in summation, this determination of contact shall suffice for storytelling purposes:
“I like you.
I really like you.
Why are you not returning my calls?
Did you get my texts?
I like you.
I’ve begun to stalk you on the Internet.
I found your blog.
I read it all.
Every last word.
You’re bitter and need to realize there are good men out there.
Good men like me, of course.
We have so much in common.
I have deep thoughts, too.
We should get together and drink hard liquor together and discuss your problems.
Plus I have gin blossoms to maintain. “
Ten days later. Text message. March 15, 2011 5: 26pm
“You somehow decided to exclude me completely from your life. (Still a mystery to me what specifically turned you off SO bad so suddenly – it seems you have enough depth to study a bigger picture rather than a limited kaleidoscope on which to base assumptions). “
Your response: March 15, 2011 5:45 pm.
“I have feelings for someone else and have for quite some time. I am sorry.”
You thought this was the clincher. The ole deal sealer. Wouldn’t have to worry about hearing from The Count again.
Wrong.
He actually had the nerve to ask you “does this mean you want nothing to do with me at all?”
To which you responded, under the guidance of two trusted and supposedly wise friends, to tell him, quite honestly, why it wasn’t happening – and never would happen. The hand caressage situation for one. The cheapskateness for another. You figured you were perhaps doing him a favor. So his next date wouldn’t be accosted and he might realize that paying for a tab goes a long way.
This did not discourage the poor chap. On the contrary.
He decided instead that writing a sort of show-tuney type song, composing it, recording it in an off key voice and then sending the mp3 file to you via email was in order. That just had to be done.
When that fails to get a reaction, he then felt compelled to send you an e.e. cummings meets Ogden Nash style ‘backwards poem’ that alluded to your hurtful rejection of him. Keep in mind people: this was after ONE DATE.
ONE.
(You so wish you could share these tidbits – but this town is just too small and you don't want to hurt anybody).
Finally, on March 24th, after not only more phone calls and texts (which you won’t bore anyone with here), you shut it down with threats: "DO NOT EVER CONTACT ME AGAIN. THERE IS NOTHING BETWEEN US. WE HAD ONE DINNER. NOTHING MORE. PLEASE LEAVE ME ALONE."
In fact, at this point you got your parents involved. They were ready to call the cops. You were soooo done with The Count. They were so done with The Count.
"One...ahh ahh...two...ahh ah..." became an immediate family joke.
Oh, but you weren’t done with him.
Were you?
Out of nowhere, one rainy evening, months later in June, out with friends, you ran into the creeper at Burton’s. You were outside checking out your friend’s purchase of an antique Mercedes when you spotted him. Or, should you clarify and say: when his crazy intense eyes bored into your soul and made you want to run for your life?
You went inside to escape the rain and meanwhile he just stared. Across the bar. Finally, the bartender Joey intervened. He knew the guy was off. So he interfaced, got close to you to talk to you so Stalkula couldn’t stare anymore and said “that guy’s a creep. He’s just weird. I can get him out of here if you want.”
Instead, you had your friend talk to him.
“Please talk to that weirdo. I can’t take it. I want to get out of here.”
You went outside to escape, thinking there’s no way he’ll follow you out there. But he did.
“Hello Jessica, how are you?”
You’re speechless. You barely look up.
You finally get your other friend to take you home. Quickly. Quietly.
Dating can be so tedious. You wonder why you even bother to say yes to the idea of possibility. It’s better to just say no, no, no.
NOTE TO SELF: Never say yes to a man with an intriguing accent in a familiar parka in a friendly bar in Orlando who wears spectacles on a dimly lit, moonless night.
Never assume that anyone is what or who you think they are. They never are.
Open your heart, however, to the other things, the other people, the ones you run from because they are too good to be true. The expected and the seemingly true. Don’t run from them. Don’t. Even if the good thing still has a skank that calls him on a regular basis. If he only knew all the guys that called you. Some you keep on hand just because. Because they’re not that bad.
Yeah, but they’re not that good either.
Nothing is ever what we think.
Yet it kind of is.
Dating in Orlando is so tedious.
And so, you hear, is dating everywhere else.
