Anger Is My Middle Name, by Randi Braun

The following story is approximately 10% fictitious. Enjoy.

On a Saturday night in mid-May, I was sitting on my couch in complete darkness; save for the light from my computer screen and a small, 10-watt lamp on the kitchen table; typing up a paper for my Food in History class. Because of my compulsive need to procrastinate, and my complete disinterest in the subject matter of my final essay (explaining how off-shore lobster gives the citizens of Maine a sense of unity), I had logged into JDate and minimized the page, but left the volume on so I could get the occasional distraction from any incoming IMs.

One hour and five politely ignored instant messages later, I received an IM-request from Don338: a guy whose profile I had noticed a few days prior. Since the “About Me” paragraph of his personal profile made me laugh out loud, and since I can’t resist a guy who makes me laugh, I accepted his invitation to chat.

After a pleasant 15-minute conversation, Don asked me if I felt like taking a break from my work and meeting him for a drink. I looked at the clock. It was 11:00. It was tempting. I had been working on my essay for nine hours straight.

(Hmmm…………………….)

I told him I’d meet him under one condition: that no alcohol would be consumed. I needed to be clear-headed the next day, so I could finish writing about the seasonal fluctuations of lobster prices, the annual Maine lobster festival, and the Agusta lobster boat-races (and pretend that those things were actually of some importance to me).

Since drinking was off the table, and my only source of nourishment that day had come from the milk and sugar I’d stirred into my coffee, I suggested that Don and I meet at my favorite diner, which is just a 5-minute walk from my apartment. Don liked this idea. And as it turned out, my apartment was about halfway between his place and the diner, so he offered to stop in my neighborhood and “pick me up,” so we could walk together. I thought this was a really sweet gesture. We agreed to meet on the sidewalk outside my place at 11:45.

I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and threw on some nice blue jeans, a fitted white v-neck t-shirt, and a pair of white, strappy sandals.

At 11:45 on the dot, Don sent me a text message.

Don: I’m downstairs…standing between a lamp-post and a mailbox.

I grabbed a purple cardigan from my closet, threw my cell phone into my purse, bid farewell to my little bird, and left.

Once outside, I recognized Don immediately, partly because he was standing right where he said he’d be standing, and partly because he actually looked like his photos. (Yay for Don!). I approached him, we exchanged a little “hello” kiss and started strolling eastward on 20^th street toward the diner.

Our conversation started off on a benign topic, like the weather, or the weekend subway schedule, or the fact that roaches only come out at night. (Very stimulating, I know.) But no more than 60 seconds after our initial greeting, I started to receive a very subtle, almost undetectable signal from Don’s subconscious. And that signal said: “Hello. My name is Don, and I have an anger problem.”

(Hi, Don)

Ever since I was a child, I’ve had an uncanny ability to read most people after spending less than one minute in their presence. Because of this, I was not only able to pick up on Don’s anger situation itself, but I was pretty sure that I knew the little details. He clearly didn’t have the “I-beat-my-ho-every-night-just-for-fun” kind of anger issue. It was related more to self-loathing, like “I-hate-myself-and-therefore-resent-the-universe-for-making-me-this-way,” (whatever “this way” was. I hadn’t figured that out yet. I’m not that good).

I would also have guessed that everyday was a struggle for him to keep his short fuse under wraps, and to suppress the occasional urge to blow up into the face of a stranger who accidentally stepped on his foot, or looked at him the wrong way.

My conversation with Angry Don quickly shifted from, “’let’s talk about BLAHHHHHH,” into “let’s talk about JDate,” which as we all know, can make for some very interesting conversation.

Me: I had never considered online dating until a friend told me about her experiences with the site, which were all positive. I thought it sounded like a lot of fun.

Don: Oh, that’s cool. Had you just broken up with someone?

Me: No. it’s been a while since my last relationship.

Don: Oh. Did it end badly?

Me: (Ummm….ex-squeeze me?) …No. (….that certainly caught me off guard, in the not-good kind of way). Why do you ask?

Don: Well mine ended recently, and badly (Oh COME ON!! You have to destroy the conversation already???)

Me: I’m sorry to hear that.

Don: Yeah, when I first met my ex-girlfriend, she was a prostitute* and she was addicted to heroin.

[*Note: I can't remember whether Don said she a prostitute or a stripper, but for the remainder of the story, I will refer to her as a prostitute.]

Me: Wow, a prostitute? (She sounds like a real winner. Next time you choose a girlfriend, you might think about widening your search parameters to include places other than the alleyway behind your local watering-hole).

Don: I think I felt like I could fix her or something (Oh, that’s just your subconscious trying to tell you that you need to fix yourself first).

Me: Mm hmm.

Don: I gave it six years but she ended up swirling the drain and taking me with her. She cheated on me too (……I see). By the end, things got really bad….

My brain could hardly comprehend the absurdity of the information that my eardrums were relaying to it. Don and I hadn’t even reached the diner, but somehow, we were already having the “ex” talk (or rather, he was. I don’t usually open up about my past relationships when I’m out with a guy, presumably trying to create a new one).

Don: I don’t even know if I’m over my ex, but I signed up for JDate to help take my mind off the break-up and try to move on (…Well, that’s a pretty good idea, in theory. But if you talk about your IV-drug-abusing prostitute ex-girlfriend before you and your date even make it to your destination, that kind of defeats the purpose of joining the website, wouldn’t you say?).

Me: Hmmm, I think if you’re not sure whether you’re over her, you probably aren’t (…You might consider auctioning your JDate password on ebay, then taking that money and seeing a shrink, because….this right here…you telling me this…is really fucked up).

At that point, if our evening could have been represented in the form of some tangible object, like a cat, I’d argue that he had already assaulted the object, and was now planning to have diarrhea all over it.

Don: Yeah, I guess you’re right. I’m probably not over her. I think I have relationship trouble because I always seem to be drawn to women who are really messed up (Oh, lovely…does that mean my profile screams, “Yoohoo…I’m messed up”? I think I’ll be editing that tomorrow). I never understood why though (You just need to get in touch with your emotions. Shrinks are good with that).

Just as Don started telling me the story about the restraining order he had recently filed against his ex-girlfriend, we arrived at the diner. When we walked through the front door, I was surprised to see that the place was nearly full, considering that the atmosphere is kind of reminiscent of…well…a crap-hole.

Since the sign by the entrance said, “Please Seat Yourself,” we made our way over to the only open table: a 2-top right in the middle of the seating area. When we sat down, I started leafing through the menu.

Don: Even with the restraining order, she was still stalking me (Shhh. If you are going to use me as your personal therapist, at least be courteous enough to wait until I’ve decided between blueberry pancakes and chocolate chip waffles).

He continued to talk while I looked through the breakfast options.

Don: There was actually this one night, (…Ughh) not too long ago (…uh huh. Ooo! They have banana-nut French toast!), she climbed up the fire escape and tried to break into my apartment. I ended up having to call the cops (…banana-nut French toast it is. That was easy). That was the last time I saw her (What? I already forgot what you were talking about).

Me: Sorry, what? I didn’t hear you. I was reading the menu.

Don: I said, the last time I saw my ex was when she tried to break into my apartment.

….(Is that so? She’s sounding better and better the more you talk about her)

Me: Wow. It sounds like she was a little crazy.

Don: Yeah, she probably needs to be in therapy or something………(Umm, I think you’re on the right track with that statement, but it needs to be directed toward someone else).

When the waitress came by, I ordered the banana-nut French toast and more coffee. Don just ordered a cup of decaf. After the waitress walked away…

Don: It’s so nice to just be able to order a cup of coffee.

Me: (Huh?)….Umm, what?

Don: Oh, sorry. I mean…a few years ago I was obese. I weighed almost 350 pounds, so back then, I probably would have ordered everything on the menu (That’s a very weird thing to bring up. If you’re trying to exploit my nutrition skills too, you’re not going to get very far. All I’ve learned is that lobsters are arthropods).

Me: Oh….well it’s good that you were able to lose all that weight. How did you do it?

Don: I didn’t go the easy route with the whole lap-band thing. Losing the weight was really difficult. Actually, I’ve had a really difficult life in general (…Oh no. Just STOP TALKING NOW!)

I knew what was coming. It was time for a pity-party. It’s one thing to be sensitive when a guy has just gone through a horrific breakup. We’ve all been there and I think we can all agree that it blows. However, when a guy chooses to share his misery the way a whore shares her vagina, it kind of makes me want to slap him in the face and tell him to man up.

Me: ……Ok? (And how does that make you feel? Wait, nevermind. I don’t care)

Don: My adolescent years were really hard. My Dad always used to ridicule me about my weight when I was a teenager.

Then he paused and looked at me, as if he was waiting for my horrified reaction, and a confirmation of his opinion that his father sounds like an ass. But I just looked back at him, waiting to hear about the rest of this difficult life he had allegedly been leading.

Me: ……………And?

Don: And nothing. I was fat and my dad used to ridicule me. Then we’d get into arguments about it…….(You must be kidding).

Alright, I clearly don’t have a degree in psychology, but when I hear the phrase, “My life has been so difficult,” I expect something far worse than, “I stuffed my face with cupcakes and my dad was really mean!”

Me: Ok (…Have you been through any other horrible things? Were you scarred for life when your parents bought you a kitty instead of a puppy?). But shouldn’t you be proud of yourself because you were able to lose all that weight?

Don: Yeah, but I still have terrible self-esteem issues (…..Wow. Is this still technically a date, or have we completely shifted into psychotherapy mode?). Every time my father and I fought, it was like a fresh trauma (Oh, I see…so your father made you feel bad about yourself because you were fat. Then you resented the universe for making you a fatso. Well guess what? GET OVER IT! You’re healthy now!!…So scamper off, frolic in some daisy field and live your life. And shut up. And if you can’t get over it, there’s always Prozac).

He continued…

Don: And I’ve struggled with depression my whole life. You know…it’s hereditary. And it runs in my family. And then when my dad would make fun of me, it only made it worse—–

How on god’s green earth was I supposed to handle this situation? There I was, sitting across the table from a guy who was using me as a receptacle for all of his negative thoughts. But what could I say? He was clearly unstable, fighting emotional wounds left by his prostitute ex-girlfriend, and I was 97% sure that he had a serious anger problem!! I wasn’t about to tell him to shut the hell up. He might have jumped over the table and stabbed me in the eye with his butter knife. Plus, he knew where I lived, so as usual, I just let him talk.

Don: And I think being fat only made the depression worse. And I used to cry a lot.

Me: Mm hmm………..

As you may have noticed, once a guy starts doing/saying really weird stuff, I just let him run his mouth. Unfortunately for me, though…every one of those guys has either called, emailed, or IMed me the following day, telling me how nice a time he had on our date, and asking if I’d like to go out with him again. I eventually came to the conclusion that letting a guy ramble on about his mishigas*, led him to believe that I’m just “so easy to talk to,” when actually, I’m just easy to talk at. But so is a table lamp. And so is a donkey’s butt. Maybe I look non-threatening.

Don: So yeah. My life’s been really hard……..

I sighed. But then I had a brilliant idea! I would use the rest of the date to purposely repel Don, just to make for damn sure that I wouldn’t wake up the next morning and find an email in my inbox with the subject line of: “I had such a lovely time last night.” I would have to flex my creative muscles and test my amateur acting skills, but it was worth a shot.

When he returned to the subject of his teenage depression issues, I interrupted him with…

Me: Oh yeah, I can totally relate to your depression thing. Mental illness runs in my family too.

Don: What kind of mental illness? Depression also?

Me: (Uhh, I might as well try to make this sound as terrible as possible). No, not depression….schizophrenia. Schizophrenia runs in my family. A lot of us are schizophrenic.

Don: Really?

Me: Yeah, my dad is, and so was his dad. They both used to believe that secret messages were being sent to them through the TV screen.

Don: Whoa, that’s crazy. Are you schizophrenic too??

Me: (Heeheehee). Uhh….yup.

Don leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and furrowed his eyebrows. I knew there was at least a 50:50 chance that he was seeing through my make-believe story. I’m a terrible liar.

Don: Well……….you don’t SEEM crazy (Oh, thank you. I guess I hide my imaginary mental-health deficit very well).

Me: Oh…..umm……..that’s because I’m on a lot of medication, so…it’s under control….some of the time. The meds don’t always work (heeheehee).

Don: What happens when they don’t work? (I go on killing sprees. You should be fearing for your life right now).

Me: I start hearing voices (…This is way too easy). Sometimes the voices tell me to do…..things. They’re hard to ignore. They just sound so real (…Are you scared enough yet? Do you want to leave me here? I’d be perfectly happy enjoying my French toast by myself. After all, I have all these voices to keep me company).

Don: That sounds really scary (…I know, doesn’t it? I’m just glad I don’t have it). Does it ever go away? Like depression does?

Me: (Uhhh) No, it’s a lifelong condition (Maybe. Well, who cares? It’s not like any of that other stuff is true).

Don: That sucks.

Me: I know. And it’s hereditary (I think), so my (imaginary schizophrenic future) kids will probably have it too.

Don: Wow.

Strike 1.

Once I finished drilling into Don’s head that I ingest massive quantities of psychotropic medication in an attempt to keep my auditory hallucinations under control, he decided he hadn’t complained enough about his ex-girlfriend, so we dug that up again.

Don: Toward the end, her drug problem was getting out of control…..(Maybe she was just self-medicating because she just couldn’t deal with your incessant complaining).

Me: Is that the main reason you broke up with her?

Don: I mean, I probably could have dealt with the drug thing for a while. She was at least trying to quit heroin, but she cheated too (Oh, that’s right. How could I forget?) Thinking about her having sex with some other guy was just too much to handle. I hate people who cheat (….Reeeaaaally?? Hmmmm). Cheaters make me sick (Wow, I couldn’t have planned a better setup myself).

Me: Uh oh…..Cheaters make you sick? That’s kind of bad news for me.

Don: What do you mean? (I mean…I’m a lying, adulterating hussy! And I will make a cuckold out of you). Have you cheated on a boyfriend?

Me: (No)…Yes. Every boyfriend I’ve had, in fact.

His eyes nearly popped out of his face.

Don: Oh my god….WHY????

Me: (Uhhhhhh)….Ummmm…….(….Let’s see).…..I guess………..I guess I just felt like it (Dear lord. How can you NOT tell that I’m lying!?)

Don: That’s bad.

Me: I know. I regret it, but sometimes I just can’t stop myself. It’s like a compulsion. (Heeheeheeheeehee…..This is really funny).

Don: What are you gonna do about it? (Oh, I don’t know. Probably cheat on my next boyfriend. Which means that I am not girlfriend material, nor do you ever want to take me out again. Yay!)

Me: What am I going to do about it? What do you mean?

Don: I mean, if you can’t help yourself, are you gonna try to see a therapist or something? (That’s twice tonight that you recommended therapy for somebody other than yourself. So the basic information is there, but your brain is putting it together wrong. Keep trying)

Me: Nah…..I’ll just try harder not to cheat on the next guy.

And that’s when my French toast arrived. Fidelity conversation over. Conclusion: I’m a cheating ho. Strike 2.

I neatly buttered my four triangular-shaped pieces of egg-battered bread, drowned them with imitation maple syrup, cut off a large corner from the left-most piece, stuffed it into my mouth, chewed a few times and….

Me: Uh huh….so your girlfriend liked heroin and she liked to cheat? Anything else?

I was hoping he’d be repelled by the sight of the half-masticated food that was nearly falling out of my mouth.

Don: She and I fought too. One time…I got so angry that I punched a hole in the wall (Ah, and there’s our anger problem. Good to know that my little antennae are still functioning properly).

Me: I have a question. Try not to get upset by this (…I know that might be difficult for you. If you feel your blood starting to boil, just start counting backwards from 10). But, do you get angry a lot, in general? I mean……do you have an anger problem?

Don looked me right in the eye.

Don: ………………………..YES!!….I DO!!! (Wow….and with such enthusiasm!!!). I’ve had anger problems my entire life! (So the angry Jew and the schizophrenic tramp are having a fun-filled date at a diner. I think we’re a match made in JDate heaven. Maybe we should email the CEO and ask if we can write one of those testimonials for the website)

Don: How did you know? Because of the wall-punching thing?

Me: Oh, no. It wasn’t the wall-punching thing. I kind of got the sense as we were walking over here………

This made him very distressed.

Don: OH MY GOD!!!….SHIT!!! You could SENSE my anger?!?….RIGHT AFTER YOU MET ME!!!??? (Uh huh). It’s THAT OBVIOUS?????

Me: Well. I’m very perceptive. Maybe that’s why I noticed it.

Don: I can’t BELIEVE this!!!!….

His face turned red and he started clenching his jaw.

Don: Women can sense it within seconds!…FUCK!!! I’M SO SCREWED!

He got thoroughly agitated, which was great. Not only was I privy to his volatile anger issue, but he had just given me a little taste of it, which would of course, imply that I wouldn’t want to see him again. Strike 3. My work was done. And so was my French toast. I asked the waitress for the check, fully intending on paying for my food, but actually, Don might have insisted on paying. I can’t remember. If he did, thank you Don. I have to give credit where credit is due.

Since my apartment was on the way back to Don’s place, he walked me home. Once I was through my front door, I tossed my purse onto the floor, collapsed onto my big yellow sofa, and stared at the ceiling for about a minute. It was such a relief to be home. Then I sorted through some printouts that I was planning to reference the next day for my lobster-appreciation essay. (Wow, I never thought I’d be typing those three words in succession. I think I actually lost brain cells while writing that paper.) Then I took care of my nighttime personal hygiene duties, and jumped into bed feeling very relaxed, knowing that I would never be hearing from Don again.

Or so I thought.

I got up the following morning still feeling full from my midnight French toast, so I skipped breakfast and headed directly to my laptop to finish writing the shittiest paper of my entire career as a student. But of course, before doing so, I had to find a way to procrastinate. So I checked my email. Amongst the unread crap in my inbox, there were three notifications from JDate, letting me know that I had received three new messages from guys on the site. I told myself that I would log in, read the messages, and log out immediately afterward. There was really no time for dilly-dallying that day.

When I signed in, I was relieved to see that none of the messages was from Don (…whew). However, I couldn’t have been on the site for more than three minutes before receiving an IM request: “Don338 would like to chat.” (…Oh, HELL!)

Don: Hey (…What do you want? Did you have a crappy night’s sleep and need somebody to complain to?).

Me: ………………Hi.

I really didn’t have time to talk. I needed to continue with my lobster research.

Me: I just signed on to check my messages. I really have to work on that essay.

Don: Oh, that’s ok. I just wanted to tell you (…What? That you’ve thought about it and you’d like us to attend group therapy sessions together? No thanks). Last night was nice (Ohhhhh no. Don’t…you… dare. Don’t even THINK about asking me out again!)……………………

He continued.

Don:……I can’t believe I told you all that stuff (Oh great. Now do you want to tell me how easy I am to talk to?)……I mean, you’re just so easy to talk to (…Oh, COME ON!!!).

I could NOT believe what was happening!

Don: So (…no, don’t do it), I just wanted to ask (…..don’t say it!!) if you want to go out again (……….AGHHHHHHH!!!! WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU!???? I told you I’m a cheating, lying, schizophrenic whore who hears imaginary voices and whose medication doesn’t even work half the time!! ….WHY IN THE HELL DO YOU WANT TO SEE ME AGAIN????)

And then I remembered……..

Don from last night: I tend to gravitate toward women who are really messed up.

He wasn’t kidding. I was going to have to use my cookie-cutter, “no-way-José-am-I-going-out-with-YOU-again,” rejection declaration.

Me: Well, to be honest….I was getting more of a “friend” vibe from you than a romantic vibe. I just wasn’t feeling much chemistry.

That is the most wonderful excuse in book. No matter the events that transpired the night before, the person receiving this rejection really can’t dispute it. This means that it’s usually followed by…

Man being rejected: I understand. It was nice to meet you anyway. And good luck in the future.

It would be foolish for Reject-Man to actually ask, “Hey, I’d like to know EXACTLY why you weren’t feeling a connection.” Because the only real answer to that is, “Well, I guess my nose just doesn’t like your pheromones, and my pituitary gland chooses not to release endorphins when I see you, talk to you, or think about you. Sorry.”

Don, however, did not like my excuse.

Don: But, we’re obviously able to talk openly with each other (So what? Does that mean we should get married?)

Me: Just being able to communicate (about our mental health maladies) does not a relationship make. There needs to be chemistry.

Don: That’s not true. Chemistry isn’t important.

Me: WHAT!! (I mean…ARE YOU CRAZY!). How can you say that?

Don: Here’s the thing…a lot of the middle-aged guys I work with have all told me that it’s not chemistry that makes a marriage work. It’s compatibility. Chemistry fades with time. Compatibility doesn’t.

Me: (Ummm….no). I would have to disagree with your coworkers. Chemistry itself does not fade. SEXUAL chemistry may fade as the decades go by, but just because I’m predicting that when I’m 65, sex won’t be super-important, doesn’t mean that I’m willing to be with someone who doesn’t turn me on now.

Don: Why?

Me: WHAT DO YOU MEAN, WHY??? (Did you lose your penis somewhere along in your “rocky” life-journey!? Don’t you want to enjoy boning your girlfriend twice a day for the first year of your relationship?!)

Don: All that matters is compatibility.

I was shocked to hear this information coming from a guy.

Me: Ok, then…I think our definitions of compatibility are very different.

Don: Well, compatibility is just two people complementing each other. Like, if I’m Jewish and have a steady job and want kids and want to live in the suburbs on Manhattan, then I’m compatible with a Jewish woman who wants the same things I do.

Me: Ok, well, we clearly disagree about the qualities that are required to make a good relationship (…And since, until very recently, you thought you were compatible with a strung-out, ex-prostitute whore, I don’t think I’ll be taking your relationship advice anytime soon).

Don and I pretty much fought via IM for the next 10 minutes. While I tried to explain the reasons why I didn’t want to go out with him again, he tried to explain why my reasons were wrong. After realizing that 10 minutes spent fighting with this guy were 10 minutes down the crapper, I told him that I had to sign off and write my paper.

Don: So you really won’t go out with me again?……(NO!!!!)

Me: No.

Don: I think you’re making a big mistake (No I’m not. My only mistake is allowing you to waste an 11^th minute of my day).

Me: That’s nice. Goodb….

Don: Wait, can I tell you something I noticed about you last night?

Me: Alright, fine. Then I have to go.

Don: Well………..What I noticed isn’t very good…………………..

Me: Look, if you want to tell me, just SAY IT!! I have things to do today!

Don: Ok. Well….you might have picked up on my anger problem, but I figured out that you’re a heartless, empty person……….and you have no personality…………….and no soul!!!

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

I just stared at the words………………………………………..

……………………………………………………….And then……………………………………………………………………………

……………….HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA…..AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA………..hahahahahahahahahahaaaaaaa……..HAHAHAHAHAHAHA………………………..Hahhhhhhhhhh!!!!

Me: That’s HILARIOUS!

It was the greatest laugh I had all weekend.

Me: The meanest thing that anyone has ever said to me…EVER…is coming from a guy who I just turned down for a second date. Thank you for the laugh. I’m going to go write my paper now, which should make you happy. You no longer have to talk to the empty, soulless girl who has no personality. BYE!

I signed out of the website and never heard from Angry Don again.

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