Hello Down There, by Randi Braun (FlipCollective debut)

Sometime in February of 2008, I was puttering around my studio apartment in Manhattan when I got a phone call from Jess, an old roommate from my freshman year of college at NYU. We had kept in touch here and there and had “tried” to get together several times, but inevitably, one of us would either cancel or postpone. In an attempt to break our cycle of oh-I-can’t-make-it’s and let’s-do-it-another-time’s, we made a plan to meet for brunch at a coffee shop near Times Square. It would be my first time seeing her in almost five years.

In the days of yore (aka: college), Jess and I would often stay up way too late having lengthy discussions about men. Most of the talking came from her end; she was a hopeless romantic desperately seeking that one true love she just knew was out there, while I was in a stable relationship with a guy from my hometown in Southern California. It was of no surprise then, when the topic of our love-lives arose at our reunion brunch. As usual, I didn’t have much to share: I had been regularly hooking up with a film student from Bermuda for about six months. It was a scenario that was completely devoid of drama (which is just how I like it).

Jess, however, went on a 20-minute rant that included every man she had kissed, dated, and slept with during the previous year (and the number was high…even for her). When I asked where she was meeting all these guys, she gave me an answer that I found quite shocking.
Jess: I joined a dating site. It’s called Jdate. It’s for Jews.

I looked at her quizzically. Jess is a perfectly normal, socially-functioning young woman who has never had any problems attracting men. I had always been under the impression that dating sites were created for the socially-challenged, and for senior citizens looking for 25 different types of compatibility. Furthermore, I thought Jewish sites only welcomed the super-religious, matzo-loving rabbis-in-training who can’t wait to settle down and make giant flocks of Jewish babies.

Me: But…..why?

Jess went on to explain that the website she had joined was exploding with “intelligent,” “sophisticated,” and “normal” men who just didn’t have enough time to date in the traditional manner, and or had given up trying to find Ms. Right at the local watering-hole. She also mentioned that most of the members, while Jewish, were all very lax about the whole religion thing, which was pretty obvious, considering that Jess is a Protestant.

The more she talked about the website, the more curious I became about this mysterious underground labyrinth of dating and social connections. I wasn’t exactly “in the market” for a boyfriend (after all, I had a reliable source of great sex), but I felt inexplicably drawn to this online world of which I knew nothing. Since Jess had recommended JDate so highly, and seeing that I’m actually a Jew—albeit, one who thinks kosher food is gross, celebrates Christmas and doesn’t really believe in organized religion—I signed up that night.

It only took a few months, 147 email exchanges, 12 casual drinks, and one stupendous guy who managed to make me cry during our “romantic” first date, for me to realize that I am a magnet for douche-bags. Luckily though, being a magnet for that particular slice of the male population comes with its fair share of perks: over the following 6-month period, my piggy-bank o’ douche-bags filled up nicely and I was left with a stockpile of dating stories that are so bizarrely entertaining, frequently shocking and at times, downright absurd, that not sharing a few of them would be a crime against humanity. The following is just one of those stories.
*some names and locations have been changed

Hello Down There

During the time I spent trying to learn the ins and out of JDate, I had accumulated several emails. As I started opening them, I felt like a little kid on Christmas day (Oh, and Christmas is not only celebrated in my family: it serves as Hanukkah’s replacement. I’ll just add that to the bad-Jew list). Anyway, as I read one email after another, I started to feel disheartened; most of them followed one of three basic formats:

1. Hey, check out my profile. If you like what you see, get back to me.
2. Hey, ur cute. What’s ur name.
3. Sup hottie. Hit me back. Holla!

It was pathetic.

After sifting through one crappy email after another, I stumbled upon one that was actually nicely written, and when I looked at the composer’s profile, I liked what I read. The guy, whose name was Bill, was 28-years-old (in my age bracket), in grad school for engineering (so I knew he had at least a semi-functioning brain), didn’t take religion too seriously (so I knew he wouldn’t care that I like bacon with my eggs), and he seemed to know what he wanted from a relationship, which turned out to be a rarity in the online dating community.

I know. Shocking.

After he and I exchanged a few emails and had a brief, yet pleasant conversation over the phone, he asked if I would meet him that Saturday night for drinks at a low-key lounge on Park Avenue called PS365*. Since I had been to PS365 before, I knew it was the perfect place for a first date, so I happily agreed. We decided to meet there at 9 o’ clock.

When Saturday evening came, I stood half naked in front of my closet for at least twenty minutes before deciding that a white, short-sleeved blouse and grey slacks would give make me the look I was going for: sophisticated, yet prude. Normally, I might wear a pair of four-inch stilettos on a first date (or any date for that matter), but because Bill was not a smidge taller than me, I slipped my feet into a pair of black patent-leather flats instead.

After putting on makeup and some silver hoop earrings, and playing with my hair for entirely too long, I grabbed my coat and headed out (but not before applying about eight extra layers of deodorant. I was a little nervous).

The night air was cold, crisp and refreshing; a perfect night to make the fifteen-minute crosstown walk to the bar.

When I was within one block of PS365, I could see the light-blue neon sign and noticed a group of young-professional-types standing right under it. Each of them looked revved up, rowdy, and planning to cause as much chaos as possible without ending up in jail, losing any front teeth, or impregnating anyone.

Standing alone near the herd of boisterous friends was a very self-conscious-looking guy whose face was buried in his cell phone, who made Quasimodo look like he had exquisite posture, and who was wearing the kind of clothes I would expect to see on Paul Bunyan. (Well, maybe a pre-pubescent Paul Bunyan. I estimated his height to be somewhere between 5’3” and 5’4”.)

I was too far away to make out his facial features; they just looked like a blurry mess (I really needed to have my eyes checked), but as I got closer, his face turned into a different kind of mess altogether: the clearer his image became, the clearer it was that this short guy was absolutely hideous. His beady eyes, long face and slicked back hair made him resemble some sort of ugly rodent; like a giant rat. Or a shrew. He also had about three-weeks-worth of wild, untamed facial hair, which didn’t exactly help his case

(Wow. Poor guy)

As I neared the corner, I kept one eye out for my date, who I figured must have been waiting on the other side of the street, and my other eye on the little shrew. I couldn’t look away.

Then, when I was just less than half a block from the corner/the bar/the shrew, something terrible happened: the shrew looked up at me, flashed me with a mouthful of gnarly crooked teeth (which I think was supposed to be a smile), closed his cell phone and started walking in my direction.

(Oh my god oh my god oh my god…..there’s no way you can be my date).

Shrew: Hey Randi (AGGGHHHHHHH!!!! You ARE my date!!!!)
.
I think my heart stopped beating for a full ten seconds as my brain raced with possible options of what to do next. My first thought was…

Imaginary Shrew: Hi Randi, how are you?

Imaginary Me: Oh, I’m sorry. My name is Cindy. You must be mistaking me for someone else.

Then I thought about pretending I didn’t even see him, casually slipping into the McDonald’s I was about to pass, and hiding in the hobo-washroom/bathroom until I knew the coast was clear.

But in my tizzy of frusstrock (that’s Frustration + Shock), my body froze until it was way too late to run away. The shrew—(er…Bill) kept coming at me, and when he was close enough, he stood on his tippy-toes to give me one of those “press-your-cheek-to-mine-and-make-the-“muah”-sound” kisses. As his grizzly beard hair rubbed against my skin, I two subsequent thoughts. The first was…
(How on Earth did you find photos that actually make you look like a homo-sapien?)

The second was…

(Hold on…maybe the guy posted fake photos…and this isn’t him at all!)

So as “Bill” pulled away from me, I examined his face, searching for any tangible evidence that he wasn’t the guy whose photos I had seen (and didn’t veto). I looked at his eyes (blue-green), the color of his hair (dark brown), shape of his earlobes (I notice weird things), and the size of this nose……………(Shit!). My hopes were dashed. This really was the Bill I had spoken to. Or a miniature, bearded version of his ugly evil twin.

Bill: How are you? (…..How am I? I’m very angry with you, sir. It’s not very nice to falsely advertise yourself like this)

Me: I’m ok.

I was trying to give my best “I’m-so-excited” face, but since the first thing he did was try to explain away his appearance, I’m guessing he saw right through it.

Bill: Oh, haha…maybe I should have told you I’m growing a beard (Haha? I don’t think it’s very funny). And you can probably tell I’m not a full 5’8” (You’re not a “kinda” 5’8” either. I can see right over your head). I’m more like 5’6” (Oh please! enough with the lying. We’re not on the phone anymore…I’M STANDING RIGHT HERE!). You seemed like a really cool girl though, so I didn’t think you’d mind (….oh, bother).

[Note: I'm not usually the shallow type when it comes to choosing men. In fact, I only have four physical criteria that a guy must meet: 1) He cannot be obese. 2) He cannot weigh less than I do. 3) If my initial thought when seeing his face for the first time is, “Ew,” it probably won't work out. 4) He must be as tall as, or taller than I am. Period. That's all I ask.]

Me: Yeah, I can tell you’re not 5’8”.

What could I do? Yell at him and walk away? Maybe, if I were a different kind of person (like a giant asshole), but I’m pretty sure I’m not because I just said…

Me: It’s cold. Let’s go inside.

And with that, the festivities began.

Bill pulled the door open and let me go in first, which was very nice, I guess. It really didn’t matter though. He had already blown the date with his sneaky profile-photo deception scheme.

We made our way down a flight of creaky wooden steps and into the main bar area. Since I had been to PS365 several times, I knew what to expect of the atmosphere. Most of the floor space was taken up by antique-looking upholstered benches and armchairs in various shades of gold; small, rectangular, cherry-wood tables that were no higher than the standard coffee table; and a few circular, padded ottomans, which doubled as seats when the place was crowded. Crystal sconces adorned the walls and tied the whole Victorian-like décor together.
Wall sconces don’t exactly provide the best light, but the place was still bright enough for everyone in the bar to turn toward the entrance and take note of the awkward-looking duo that the stray cat had just dragged through front door: Gumby’s taller, thinner, twin sister and the life-sized G.I. Joe (that sad one whose face you melted with a magnifying glass and then threw away).

Bill and I spotted a small round table in the very back of the room that was near a working fireplace and was surrounded on either side by over-sized armchairs. It looked like a nice enough place to sit. As we made our was across the bar, I felt all eyes on us…(Oh, stop staring you assholes!)

When we made it to the table, I took off my coat, sat down and put my purse on the floor.

Bill: Umm…..do you want something to drink?

Me: Oh…(Hmmm, I feel kind of bad that you’re wasting your money on me. Oh well…let this be a lesson: next time you make your bed, use something other than dirt, hay, and horse poop). Yeah, I’ll have a tequila sunrise.

I watched Bill walk over to the bar, climb up onto a stool and wait idly as the bartender helped everybody else. I looked at his face; he was very tense. In fact, he probably would have looked more relaxed if he were sitting bare-assed on a handful of thumbtacks. He was either drowning in a sea of his own anxiety, or he was severely constipated. (I would have preferred severe constipation but I was leaning more toward anxiety.)

Then I noticed him swinging feet his feet back and forth, like a little kid sitting in an adult-sized chair. I guess he had nothing better to do with them, seeing that they didn’t reach the footrest on the bottom of the stool!

(My god!…this guy could be the spawn of an oompa-loompa and a midget in the Lollipop Guild. Why did he even email me?)

When Bill came back, he put down our drinks and sat in the armchair on the other side of the table, which also happened to be too large for him. He had to choose between using the backrest and planting his feet firmly on the floor. It was actually somewhat amusing. I imagined an employee coming over to our table….

Imaginary Employee: Pardon me, madam, but would you like a booster seat for your child? Or a bib? Or some Cheerios for him to nibble on?……..(Heeheeheehee)

I just smiled.

Anyway, once he decided that he preferred to feel the floor underneath his feet, we started chatting. Well, actually…“we” is an interesting word. The conversation started off something like this:

Me: So…how are you?

Bill: Umm, I’m good.

Me: Have you been here before?

Bill: Uhhh, I don’t think so (You don’t think so? That’s odd. I was expecting a simple yes or no, considering that you picked the place).

Me: Oh, well, the bartenders are really nice so my friends and I come here a lot.

Bill: Uh huh………………………………

Me: ………………………….(Ok, now it’s your turn to speak)……………………..

Bill looked around the room.

Me: (Oh hell….fine) How long have you been living in Manhattan? I know you told me when we spoke on the phone but I forgot.

Bill: Two years.

Me: Oh, ok…I’ve lived here for about two years too. What part of the city do you live in?

Bill: Ummm, the Upper West side…up on 87th and……ummm…….

(ummm????)

Me: ………………….Broadway? Columbus? Amsterdam?

Bill: Yeah, Amsterdam….(I see, so you can’t remember whether you’ve been to PS365 and you forgot where you live. Interesting).

Me: Do you have any roommates?

Bill: Yeah. One………………………..

Bill said nothing further about his roommate and looked around the room again. Before long, I knew exactly who I was dealing with: Socially-Retarded Guy. I loathe Socially Retarded Guy. Wait, no, that’s not true: I loathe being on a date with Socially Retarded Guy. The discomfort I feel when out with this particular type of man stems directly from one of the most basic of dating equations:

First Date = (x)Bad + y

…[where (x) = the number of prolonged silences, and (y) = nothing. I just threw (y) in there because the equation looked lonely]. Since the social retard had a deep-seated fear of allowing sounds to escape his mouth, the responsibility of fighting off the looming awkward silence falls onto the shoulders of his date. She will most likely start out by asking a series of probing questions: an interrogation of sorts, but this strategy is bound to fail within the first five minutes, as the social retard will rarely reply with answers consisting of more than six words.

After trying to milk a rotted-out log, the social retard’s date does the only other thing she can think of to prevent the evening from becoming an hour-long staring contest: she carries on a completely exhausting, one-sided monologue-like conversation, usually about her likes, her dislikes, and any other shit that gallops through her mind. Since she knows that the moment she shuts her face, a frightening silence will undoubtedly swoop in, she only stops talking when she absolutely has to take a breath, or needs a few sips of her drink to keep some moisture inside her mouth (which will likely go dry from all the hot air spewing from it). After some amount of time, the woman will begin to resent the social retard for giving her no choice but to become an irritating chatterbox, making her feel self-absorbed and wonder if she’s finally turning into her mother.

But we weren’t there yet. I was still in the interrogation phase.

Me: So, do you like your roommate? (…I sincerely hope your roommate wasn’t hoping you’d provide any sort of pleasant company. He or she would have had more luck just buying a turtle. Or a hermit crab)

Bill: Yeah, he’s ok…most of the time (…Aha!…“most of the time.” See this is how to have a conversation…you have just given me something to work with. Now I will take the statement you just made, change it a little, and throw it back to you in such a way that you can throw it back to me. And so on and so forth. Good job).

Me: Uh oh, most of the time? What does that mean? (….Please let it be something funny, like he talks to his pet vampire bat when he thinks nobody is around, or that he and his mail-order-bride regularly fornicate on the kitchen table)

Bill: Oh, haha. I dunno…he’s just weird (What!! Nope, sorry pal…you’re not getting away that easily).

Me: No really…you said he’s only ok “most of the time.” What does that mean? Is he a complete whack-job?

Bill: Umm, I guess…kind of (Oh, COME ON!! get your head out of your butt and say something! I can’t possibly make this any easier for you!!!)

And this is the point at which I gave up trying to coax information out of this guy and moved on to phase #2: the tiring monologue.

Me: Blah blah blah blah…….Blah blah………….(I do hope this night is a fluke, and not some kind of forewarning about the quality of my future dates from the website).

Bill:…………………

Me: …….Blah blah blah…….blah……(If I were you, I’d want to punch me in the face for sounding like a set of bagpipes being endlessly played by a person with 95% hearing loss. Or somebody sucking and blowing into a kazoo………..Hmmm, sucking and blowing……My god, when’s the last time I had sex? I think if I have to ask that question, it’s been too long. I really need to get laid. Like soon).

Bill:……………….

Me: Blah blahhh…….. Blah blah blah ……….blah blah blah……(Speaking of sex… I can just imagine how awful you’d be in bed: Ew. Totally quiet, nothing but the missionary position, and barely thrusting into a girl who’s falling asleep right under you. Gross. Maybe you’re a virgin. I could see that).

Bill:……………………

Me: Blah blah blah….blah… (…Oh, NO!…There’s a big stain on my pants!…How did I not notice that earlier? Grrr, I guess a trip to the cleaners is in my future).

Bill: ………..my favorite plant is a cactus.

Me: (We’re discussing plants? Wow)….Blah.

As the words spouting from my mouth had less and less meaning, I was getting more and more irritated with Bill and the situation. About fifteen minutes into the exhausting monologue, I decided to ignore my natural urge to scare away the daunting absence of sound, and just stop talking. I was tired, and also kind of curious to see what would happen if I stopped holding this guy’s hand through the date.

Bill:…………………….

His eyes wandered around the room.

Me:…………………….(Look, this really isn’t hard [that's what she said]. Just ask me something, like, “hey Randi, how’s your drink?” Or “hey Randi, what’s your favorite movie?” Or “hey Randi, guess what? I jerked off five times yesterday!” Any effort on your part will not go unappreciated).

The silence continued. Beads of sweat began to accumulate on his forehead.

(What are you afraid of???? I’M NOT GOING TO BITE YOUR FACE OFF!!!)

Bill: Hey Randi (…Oh, yay…you’re going to speak! See, isn’t it easy? And look, your face is still attached to your head!)……………….Do you know where the restroom is?

……………(Wow. I shouldn’t have gotten so excited)

I pointed him in the direction of the little boys’ room and waited for him to disappear around the corner before unzipping my purse, grabbing my phone, and texting an emergency message to Jess:

Me: Jess…I’m on the most boring date ever! What do I do??

She got back to me right away.

Jess: Just tell the guy you’re tired.

Me: Really? But he’ll see right through that.

Jess: Who cares? You’ll never see him again anyway.

(Wow)

I thought about it…(Can I really tell this guy, after spending less than half an hour with him, that I’m tired? Or even worse than that, can I claim sleepiness at 9:25 on a Saturday??)

I decided that the answers were, respectively, no and no. I don’t think I could have come up with anything that screamed “You suck, I’m leaving!” louder than feigning fatigue at such an early hour. Since sending non-verbal messages to men about the magnitudes at which they suck isn’t my favorite activity, I decided I would do my best to stay out until at least 10 o’ clock, which meant I had at least 35 more minutes to endure.

Bill came back from the bathroom and sat down.

Bill: Hi.

Me: Hello.

He took a sip of his drink and looked around the room for the 27th time.

And then it happened. I yawned (…oh shit), and I knew it was all over. Within ten minutes, I would inevitably be in complete brain-meltdown. It all starts with an innocent yawn or two; then snowballs into three or four yawns per minute; then turns into heavy eyelids and three or four yawns per minute; then, depending on the situation, I start nodding off.

It’s nearly impossible for me to maintain a one-sided conversation once brain-meltdown has begun, so I knew I needed to get the hell out of there. I rationalized my decision even further by telling myself that baby-sitting this guy wasn’t my responsibility, nor was teaching him the basics of human interaction. If his feelings were hurt once he figured out why I really wanted to leave, well…tough shit.

I mentally went over my exit strategy:

(Hey, I know it’s only 9:25 but I had a long day of classes and I need to get up really early tomorrow. I’m sorry. Thank you for the drink though)

It was completely transparent but could anything have sounded believable at that point?

Around yawn #5, I said it:

Me: Hey, I know it’s only 9:25, but I had a long day of classes and… (Well, you know what I said).

As soon as the words left my mouth, I wanted to stuff them back in…(Umm, shit). After my gentle letdown, the expression on Bill’s face went from “Dull, nervous boy on a date,” to “Someone just punched dull, nervous boy in the stomach, ran over his dog, and then killed his mom.”

(Oh my god….WHAT DO I SAY NOW???)

He looked down at the floor. I wasn’t prepared for him to look so overtly defeated. I was expecting a response like, “Oh, don’t worry about it. I’m kind if tired too,” or “That’s fine. I have to go home and feed my fish anyway.”

He raised his head up and flashed me some puppy-dog eyes that were so heart-wrenching, I felt like saying, “Wait, nevermind! I just realized…I’m not tired anymore. LET’S STAY AND CHAT!” but that just would have prolonged the agony.

Me: I know it’s bad. I’m really sorry.

Then, I remembered that he had been at his parents’ place in Long Island that weekend, and he’d driven into the city, just for the date! (Oh my GOD!!…..I’m a horrible person!!!)

Me: I’m sorry. I just….I have to get up early, and…..(I should just shut up. The damage has been done).

Then he let out a huge sigh and said…

Bill: Ohhhh……..ok.

He looked like he needed the number of a suicide-hotline. I couldn’t understand why he seemed so upset though. Since most of my friends in high school were of the male gender (I grew up in LA. Intellectual women are hardly a dime a dozen there), I thought I was decently aware of the ego-bruising process:

1) Ego-bruising person/situation arises. 2) Man’s ego is hurting. 3) Man pretends to feel nothing. 4) Man walks away pissed-off, and or sad. 5) Man goes home and hits things.

Or could he have been upset because he was…..actually having a good time???? Or even an ok time? Both of those explanations seem pretty far-fetched to me, but who’s to know? You only have my version of the story. Maybe the date was simply fantastic and I just can’t recognize fun when it bites me in the butt.

Anyway, Bill stood up and walked over to the bar looking so defeated that I could have used a suicide-hotline number myself. As he was closing the tab, I wanted to take out my wallet and pay for my drink—–wait, no. I wanted to pay for both of our drinks, then give him gas money, and maybe a few extra bucks for emotional battery.

Once we were on the street…

Bill: Which way are you walking? I’m going downtown.

Me: Oh, I’m going uptown.

That wasn’t true, but I didn’t feel like taking a walk with a guy whose self-esteem I had just shattered. I also thought it would have been weird to say, “Oh, I’m heading downtown too, but I’m going to walk on the other side of the street so I can get away from you! BYE!” Assault #1 was bad enough; I didn’t have to kick him in the face again.

Me: Uhhhh…thanks for the drink (Don’t hate me…and don’t kill yourself). It was nice meeting you (???).

Bill: It was nice meeting you too.

I debated giving him a hug (to make myself feel less like an ogre), but I decided against it, turned around and walked one block uptown.

Then I crossed the street and lingered for a few minutes before actually walking in the right direction. It was even colder out now. The thought of just hailing a cab and being home in three minutes did cross my mind, but I decided to walk. After all, I wasn’t wearing high heels.

Bill called me the following week and left a voice message saying that he had had a nice time and that he’d like to see me again. I didn’t get it, I still don’t get it, and I don’t think I ever will.

I did learn a few things from my very first online dating experience though. For starters, it became obvious that if a guy didn’t provide the maximum number of photos (four), there was probably a very good reason. And the reason was not that he was devilishly handsome.

Second, it was equally obvious that I needed to start claiming that I was 5’9” on my dating profile, just to keep the shorties away. And third, it’s not easy to look into the face of a strange man and tell him (even in transparent code), that he sucks so hard, that giving him an entire hour of my time is out of the question. This fear of confrontation on my part led to many more uncomfortable situations, which at first sounds like a bad thing, but if you look at the flip-side, it’s given me a boat-load of fun stories to tell all of you! If I had had the balls (or whatever the female equivalent of “balls” are), to walk away from a guy as soon as things got weird, I’d have a lot of dates that only lasted five minutes, and exactly zero funny stories. Good thing I’m such an amazingly kind and wonderful person. (wink)

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