The Date to End Other Dates

As a byproduct of the numerous “you are not my girlfriend” conversations I had with Chef, I decided to go on a date. With a guy that, of course, I met at [MexicanRestaurant]. He knew Door Guy, he knew DeeJay, and he even knew some theater friends of mine. He was cute and personable and really good at prolonged eye contact. I gave him my number.

A few days elapsed. I heard nothing. No big deal.

The weekend passed. On Tuesday he texts me asking if I’m free Sunday. I make some things up to make it sound like I am busier than I actually am but yes Sunday could definitely work. He proposes brunch or dinner. I propose dinner or post-dinner drinks (drinks being the preferable choice— I hate meals for first dates, way too much pressure). He counters “Or both, assuming we don’t hate each other.” Cute. I’m looking forward to it. He says he’ll touch base on Saturday to confirm.

Wednesday of the intervening week I’m working, and who do I see at the bar but Future Date. Future Date appears to be on a current date, with a girl who was Not Me. Not Me had sort of a corporate look to her and didn’t appear to be having a very good time. In my attempt to rationalize how Future Date could be so stupid as to bring Not Me to the place where he and I met, which is also the place where I WORK, I wondered if Future Date and Not Me were on a date at all.

Equally baffling was the fact that I couldn’t even attempt to deny that it was him, because he was wearing the exact same hat/scarf/t-shirt that he had been wearing when I met him. Maybe he goes on SO MANY DATES that he doesn’t even have time to change his clothes.

I said nothing. He did not see me. They dance a little bit and leave. I have no idea how to feel. I mean, of course he has other dates. That is beyond within his rights. I sleep with someone else more or less every night of the week, someone who is actually in this restaurant right now, so I’m not really in a place to judge. But he had to figure I would be there.

About thirty minutes after I realized they were gone, Future Date returned. I approached.

“I thought that was you.”

“Yeah, weird, blind date… she has to get up early for work so I walked her to the train.”

“Oh, yeah, work. Some people do that.”

“Sorry, yeah, she wanted to meet up in this area and this is kind of the only cool place I know around here…”.

“Yeah. No worries.”

“Cool.”

“…”.

“…”.

“Tequila?”

“Yeah.”

We established that we were still on for Sunday.

Saturday comes. He does not text to confirm.

It is now five o’clock on Sunday. I have not heard from him. I do not have other plans but I ostensibly could have made some. In an effort to avoid texting Future Date, or as he may now come to be known, The Date that Wasn’t, I call Female Friend George. I implore George to stay on the line until the storm has passed. We talk about celebrities and the fact that her boyfriend’s dad is dying. That, and how I am not allowed to text Future Date.

Then BING Future Date texts me, George makes me stay on the line for the mandatory five minutes that I must allow to elapse before responding to his text.

He asks if we can do drinks in Brooklyn. This suits me fine. He asks me what time I’m free. Right now! would sound pretty lame, so I pretend to be in a rehearsal that gets out at eight. We choose [Dive Bar Under the BQE in Williamsburg] as an “initial meeting place”.

I get there before he does and order a drink at the bar. I contemplate drinking the whole thing and ordering another one right away. He comes in and takes a minute to spot me, but thank goodness he’s still wearing that same hat/scarf/t-shirt combo, so I recognize him right away.

We talk. We drink. We giggle. We drink. We stare. We move to a booth. We make out. We take photos in the photo booth. We get tacos. We make out. We leave. I think that we’re going to head to another bar but evidently he used to live in this area with his ex so even though he knows it really well, everything reminds him of her. Overshare? Incidentally we are approximately four blocks from Chef’s apartment. 

We buy two six packs (overkill?) at a bodega. He also buys groceries. Weird. We take a cab back to his place in Bushwick. In the car he shows me a photo of his sister that he carries in his wallet and he talks about how proud he is of the work she’s doing “down home”.

His apartment is one of those newly-renovated apartments in Bushwick that seem like they can fit more stuff than they can and so always feel cramped. We talk to his roommate for WAY TOO LONG. We make out in the kitchen. I think we’re going to go to his room but instead he turns on a Louis C.K. DVD and makes ramen.

It occurs to me that this is probably my cue to leave, but he seems genuinely excited about experiencing all of his favorite Louis C.K. jokes with me, even if we do have to keep the volume super low and not really laugh too much because his loquacious roommate has gone to sleep. He even makes me ramen. With an egg in it (the right way).

This is really far from my ideal date, but Chef is sending me dramatic text messages about how he needs to be by himself tonight. When I’m done being rude and checking my phone, Date puts a blanket over me (one of those shiny fleece blankets that looks like it’s made from a skinned muppet, the tacky kind that guys always like because they’re super soft) and starts rubbing my feet. I am simultaneously weirded out and pretty cozy.

To my surprise, we finish the entire Louis C.K. DVD. He brings me into his bedroom and I’m thinking “What’s the harm? We both like Ramen. He likes rubbing my feet, I like having my feet rubbed. Plus, my apartment is pretty far from here…”.

We go through his room onto the balcony without so much as a pit-stop at the bed. He smokes a cigarette. I say something complimentary and unsincere about the view. He leads me back, straight past the bed, and suddenly I find myself at the door. Ah. This is my cue to leave. Got it. He calls me a car and offers me money. I decline. On the way back to my apartment I text Chef to make sure that he really doesn’t want me to come over. He doesn’t. No worries, that’s cool.

That was the last date I went on with someone who was not Chef. Any sort of designations of exclusivity, implied or otherwise, did not come for months. But after that experience I pretty much decided that I would rather consistently hang out with a guy who I like a lot, even on uncertain terms, than waste my time feeling awkward and trying to avoid Louis C.K. traps. At the end of the day, Chef and I always have stimulating conversations, know what we like to do together, and can have awesome sex whenever we want. We’re at that really nice place where we’ve developed a level of comfort and simple co-existence, but we’re still getting to know each other. And he’s not perfect, but he’s pretty great.

I didn’t ever hear from The Date to End Other Dates, but he did come into [Cocktail Bar] when I was working. He was with a girl named Amber. She seems very nice. Very friendly. And suffice it to say, if Amber is his type, then I certainly am not. While Amber was off somewhere I handed him a shot and proposed a toast to “the only guy to never call me back.” He said he’s still not sure why he didn’t. I think he was lying but I appreciate the sentiment all the same.

A few weeks later we ran into each other at [Dive Bar Under the BQE in Williamsburg], where Chef and I were celebrating his birthday with his crew in a cascade of tecate and tequila. Chef evidently did not recognize Date to End Other Dates from the strip of photo booth pictures that he had been polite enough to ignore when he accidentally came across them in my bedroom. Especially polite considering the fact that I was wearing Chef's scarf in the photos. What a keeper.