Every day I overhear city dwellers lamenting that it’s impossible to meet people. How can that be? Droves of beautiful people roam the streets: models with chiseled faces, artists burning with creative angst, slick stockbrokers with Wall Street assets. Obviously the problem is not that there isn’t anyone out there, but that it’s hard to initiate contact. Some people think an introduction by a mutual friend is the answer…
A few years ago, a new acquaintance named Carolyn insisted that because I was tall and blonde, my genetic structure would appeal to her friend Philip. “He’s 6’3”, wealthy, generous, gorgeous, and a total jetsetter,” she said. “He finds it hard to meet his type. I think you’d be perfect.”
“Not interested,” I replied (I am now brunette).
“He’s going to Japan on Sunday. Maybe you could go along. Do you like to travel?”
“I would never leave the country with a stranger.”
“Come on,” she pleaded as though it were life or death. “Just meet us for dinner tomorrow. He’ll pay, and if you don’t like him, no problem.”
Some perverse impulse inside me drove me to go. And besides, I needed some new writing material.
I met them for drinks at 10 p.m. at Babraluc on 64th and Lex. Several people were standing outside smoking, but it seemed to be a higher end place. At first I didn’t know if they were actually there, since I couldn’t see Carolyn. I called her cell phone and she was in the restroom. “Go ahead to the table, it’s in the back on the left. Philip is sitting with a couple of blondes,” she said. I was wary, but there was no turning back.
Philip was easy to spot, surrounded by two ladies with varying shades of pale hair. It felt like I was auditioning for a movie role. I would be cast as the ‘dangerous platinum dame’. The blonde on the left was Swedish and dressed entirely in pink; the blonde on the right was Russian and reminded me slightly of Marcia Brady. The Russian was already wearing Philip’s jacket and had her hand on his knee.
Philip had acne scars, long limp hair, a beard, a high, trilling voice, and was about 40 lbs. overweight. He was wearing a pink shirt and a pink and grey paisley tie, and appeared to be over 45. He surveyed me like a new suit in a store window. “Order whatever you want,” he said with a blasé flourish of the hand.
I order a scotch: McCallum 25. Neat.
The Swede was sweet and bubbly, into astrology and goddesses. She started coughing and couldn’t stop. I sensed she was feeling a bit rejected by Philip. Every now and then the Russian flashed us a dazzling, triumphant smile, proud of her seduction skills. Carolyn seemed to be playing the role of Madam. She tried very hard to spark a conversation between me and Philip. “Andrea’s a writer, Philip likes to go camping in the jungle…” but I was concentrating on soaking it all in too much to really talk, and Philip was fixated on making travel plans with the Russian.
I wondered whether she got a commission. I also wondered if anyone else at the table finds this scenario absurd.
Philip and the Russian girl started making out at the table. Meanwhile, Carolyn ordered a ton of food and when Philip refused to eat because of recent dental work, she ingested his portion. At this point I should mention that this woman was painfully thin – her thigh is about the size of my arm. Half way through a mouthful of white fish, Philip leaned over to her and warned her to stop overeating. “Watch the booze too,” he snapped, “I don’t want you to have another episode!”
Episode? Again, I seemed to be the only one who found this strange. Carolyn confesses that she is on seizure medication. I asked whether she is hypoglycemic. “Something like that,” she muttered. I realized at that moment she was certifiably insane.
She then put her hand on my leg and asked me whether I was into girls or guys, what my interests are, and whether I liked Philip. I said, “I like guys and I like to read books a lot, but I don’t like Philip.” I squirmed away from her grip.
She shrugged. “Philip doesn’t do long term relationships anyhow.” She asked why I agreed to come and meet them, a bunch of virtual strangers. I felt as though I was being psychoanalyzed.
“As a writer, I like to have a variety of experiences from which to draw on,” I said. “I like to study human nature. I’m collecting stories in this city of extremes.”
At that point I decided I’d had enough weirdness for one night, and excused myself. Philip slipped a $20 into my hand for the cab, proclaiming that, “It’s what a gentleman does.” Carolyn asked if we could hang out next week. (No thanks.) The Swede was coughing uncontrollably, and the Russian told me, “You seem nice. Maybe we could be friends.” Sigh.
I’ve reached the conclusion that a supposed set up through a mutual friend can be as creepy as anything else. And what if the reason everyone sings the ‘it’s impossible to meet anyone’ blues is because it really is impossible to meet anyone?
No comments:
Post a Comment