Saturday, July 01, 2006
Stand Up Guy
Okay, I have a right to ask. What's going on here?
I got stood up the other week, which sucks all on its own, but it seems to be happening to me a lot lately. And that really blows.
I met them all through interracial dating sites that brings black women and white men together.
I can give all sort of reasons as to why I got onto this site, but I'll get right to the point: I like black women. Maybe it's from growing up in a white bread neighborhood like Bay Ridge (or the way it used to be), but I do have a thing for the sisters.
I wrote about the first one back in April, when I was ill and this young lady scrubbed the date at the last second. I had to go out on a rainy night with a heavy cold and I didn't get the call until I reached downtown Brooklyn, but that was just fine with me. I did an about-face and went the hell home.
The second one was Shirley, which is not her real name, of course, but I'm not giving her any publicity. Also, she's a lawyer and might sue my ass. Shirley, too, cancelled our first date at the last hour, claiming her ex-husband had stuck her with minding their son for the weekend.
Shirley, You Jest
I wrote about this one, too, in a post called "Honey, Can I Change My Mind?" I got all hot and bothered and left Shirley a harsh voice mail message, she called back and apologized profusely and I felt like a blue ribbon moron.
I thought it was over with Shirley but a few weeks later I contacted her and got a second chance at a first date. We agreed to meet at the Brooklyn Academy of Music, a fabulous place, by the way, and, as usual, I got there first and waited. And waited. And waited.
Shirley called me finally on the cell phone and said she'd be there in 15 minutes later. Okay, I thought, and preceded to wander around the lobby for another 30 minutes. This isn't easy, as BAM's lobby, while very appealing, is not that big.
Finally, I had enough and walked out the door, determined to go home and never have anything to with Shirley again. And that's when she came pulling up in a cab.
"I saw how mad you were," she said, by way of a greeting. And she was right. I was tempted to dump her right there, but I figured I'd make the best of it and took her to a nearby restaurant for drinks.
Shirley was fabulous. A lively, intelligent woman with a variety of interests, connections with the entertainment industry, and plenty of advice for aging showbiz wannabe. All my anger faded as the evening progressed. Even when she told me she was a Republican conservative, it didn't bother me that much. I just wanted to have sex with her.
We walked out of the restaurant holding hands and a young black man came up to us asking for change. I reached for my wallet, while Shirley, her neocon attitude on high alert, began pulling me away.
"He's perfectly healthy," she said with an edge to her voice. "He can get a job."
"I'm sorry," I said to the homeless man. "My wife won't let me do this."
"I'm in a program, ma'am," the homeless man said to Shirley.
It was quite a scene and I was having fun. Finally, I gave the guy a single and promised Shirley that I'd trip a blind man, or kick the cane away from an old lady--something that would warm her frosty Republican heart.
Shirley liked to play both sides of the fence. She talked tough about personal responsibility, but when I pointed out her tardiness she just smiled and invoked CPT: Colored People's Time.
She was blathering all this conservative tripe until I found a dark spot to neary a subway station and started making out with her.
It was nice kissing her; certainly better than listening to her talk. We took a stroll around the block, I took her to a car service and tried to be a gentleman and offered to ride home with her. Shirley took it a different way.
"I'm not sure I want to fuck you yet," she said matter-of-factly.
Christ, was it that obvious? I really was trying to be a gentleman, but I was also really trying to have sex with her. I'm a gentleman and a degenerate.
I thought I was on to something with Shirley, so we agreed to have dinner the following week at an African restaurant not too far from BAM. I get there first, naturally, and I stood outside the restaurant waiting for Shirley. And I kept on waiting.
I crossed the street to look at a statue of some Civil War general. I knew how he felt, just standing with nothing to do. I was hoping pigeons wouldn't start crapping on me. I walked back to the restaurant. I watched the minutes roll by on the Williamsburg Savings Bank clock tower, which loomed over me like Frankenstein's castle. And I got really pissed.
I felt like a drug dealer, for Christ's sake, lurking on the corner waiting for my hophead clientele. I'm thankful I didn't actually go into the restaurant and wait for her at a table like a real loser.
Finally, after 30 freaking minutes, I had to go to the bathroom. I walked the two blocks over to BAM, did the deed, and prepared to race back to my post at the corner like a security guard, but then I stopped. I was not going to hurry for this woman.
I'm not schmuck, not some loser who has to take all kinds of crap just to get a date. She can bloodly well wait for me. I was in the BAM bookstore when my cell phone went off. It was Shirley.
"I'm at the restaurant," she said.
"I was there for the last half-hour," I told her.
"I was late," she said, not even trying to apologize. "I couldn't find your cell phone number."
Okay, you live 10 minutes away, you keep me waiting for so long I've got a five o'clock shadow, you don't have the decency to call me for half-an-hour, and then you don't have the decency to say you're sorry? My God, what a catch!
I started to say something and Shirley pounced.
"So you're standing me up?" she said.
Typical Republican: the rules don't apply to you and when you get caught with your pants down, immediately go on the attack. Somewhere Karl Rove was smiling.
"We could do this another time if you want," she said.
"Maybe that's a good idea," I said, closing my cell phone.
So instead of dinner with a woman on a Friday night, I sat in my living room eating a falafel and watching a Sopranos DVD. That's high living, brother.
The thing is, keeping someone waiting like that, it goes beyond dating. It's just good manners. I wouldn't do that to anyone, not a total stranger, not even a dog, if I should have to meet with one.
And, as a female friend of mine pointed out, the second date is still the magic time when everyone is supposed to be on their best behavoir. If she's yanking my chain this early on, God knows what it would be like six months down the road.
Would it suprise you to hear that I never called Shirley again?
Leslie Does It
And then there was Leslie. What can I say about Leslie, except that's she's a screaming headcase in dire need of medication? I saw her photo on the web site and sent her an email entitled "Such A Lovely Smile." And it was true. She did have a lovely smile.
We exchanged e-mails, had some pleasant phone calls, where I learned she was a Star Trek fan, and then we agreed upon a meet and greet. We kept it simple. We were to meet at the bar of an Italian restaurant in Brooklyn Heights on a Wednesday night for drinks.
I got there first. I grabbed a seat at the bar and waited. And waited. And, oh, Jesus, you know the drill. The time went by, people came in and out of the bar, and I sucked down Diet Cokes. I called her on the cell phone, but I only got the recording. I waited another 10 minutes and called again. No luck.
A woman sat down next to me and I started talking to her. Her name was Elba, she was from the Dominican Republic, and worked at a dress shop a few doors down. I told her I was waiting for someone and she was concerned Leslie would get angry if she walked in and saw us talking.
"That's her problem," I said. "She's late."
So we talked. She told me about her sister, who was visiting her. Elba had five sisters, two brothers and over 100 cousins. She didn't have a lot to do with her family, because, she said "they get under my skin."
I started wondering if Elba was more my type. She was petite, mature, intelligent, and she was there, unlike Leslie, who had apparently been abducted by the Klingons. It had a storybook feel to it: stood up guy meets the girl of his dreams and true love blossoms.
Sounds nice, but I suspect Elba's husband would have a problem with that little scenario. Yep, she let on that she was married. I guess that's why they call them storybook romances as they only happen in fairy tales.
It was time to go. I bid Elba good night and she told me not to worry about Leslie.
"She's not worth it," she said.
When I got home, there was a message from Leslie on my home phone. She had left it at noon, saying she couldn't make it, claiming she didn't have me cell phone number, hoping I'd get this message in time. She was speaking faster and faster.
"I can't do this now," she said, "It's just a bad time for me and I--"
I erased the message. No reason to hear all this psychotic babbling. I was tempted to write her an angry e-mail, something a long the lines of "Thanks, Asswipe," but luckily I didn't. Anyone who would lie so pathetically, who would go through such contortions to avoid seeing me is best avoided.
Elba was right. She wasn't worth it. I'm well rid of her and those other losers and free to go out there and meet someone else.
Let's just hope they're on time.