Internet Dates From Hell Part 3

Like the phantom ride home, I soon mysteriously found myself fingering the computer keyboard, activating my personal ad once again. Within thirty minutes, Francisco, a self-proclaimed Mexican-bred cla.s.sical pianist answered my ad. Phew! That was fast! I think that was the quickest reply I'd ever received after posting an ad. Maybe I was being overly dramatic, since it had been over four weeks since my profile had last been viewable. Before long I found myself responding. My normal practice is to not give my phone number, but to receive the man's phone number and call him. No sooner did he give me his number, than I phoned him. I learned quickly that not only had he recently recorded his own CD of original music, but he was also working on a second CD of legendary standard tunes. His voice complemented the photo that was attached to his email. But, as most Internet daters know, photographs can be deceiving.

With a soft-spoken, s.e.xy Hispanic accent, he asked if I was available that same evening, since he lived in the same neighborhood, he could be over shortly to meet me. I told him that even though I wasn't busy, it had been my last day of school and I needed to decompress; a container of Ben and Jerry's Chunky Monkey, or possibly Cookies and Cream, some cool jazz, and the latest tabloid would do the trick. I told him that perhaps we could meet up the next night. We agreed to meet for a light bite and early show at a jazz club in Tribeca.

Fas.h.i.+onably late is not the order of business in a jazz club, especially for the early show. He had said 9:00 PM, and it was precisely 8:50 PM when I walked through the doorway. Thank G.o.d that I didn't wear heels because these clubs could be so dark that I could foresee falling down the first flight from the street and never being noticed. Little did I know that the sandals I wore would save me some serious time.

Rather than join the huddling ma.s.s at the bar for their last drink before the show began, I decided to take a table close to the stage, but not too close for comfort. I can count on two hands the number of jazz clubs I've visited. I was concerned that he wouldn't find me, but that concern vanished when I saw him talking on stage to the ba.s.s player as he tuned his final string. Within seconds, he eyed my table. Within a nanosecond, he was seated next to me.

"I had another table in mind, but this is just as good," he initially offered.

"We can move," I suggested, "I'm not married to this spot."

"No, no, this is actually better. We have a better view of the piano player," he said in an unmistakably articulate accent.

He looked much more attractive than the photograph attached to his e-mail. I couldn't determine the color of his eyes, but they appeared, in the darkness of the club, to be as dark as his hair. His clothes, too, were black: a black open-necked s.h.i.+rt, black jeans, and a black sport coat. I'd like to be able to say that he also wore black shoes, but I thought it would be inappropriate to stare at his shoes. Even if I had, I probably couldn't determine it, because of the lack of light. This didn't stop Francisco, though, because before a note was played on stage, he was trying to note my feet (staring no less!).

"Did you drop something on the floor?" I asked.

"Excuse me, what did you say?" he exhorted.

I repeated, "Did you drop something? You seem to be preoccupied with the floor."

"Oh no," he laughed, "although it's a bit dark, I was admiring your feet."

"My feet or my shoes?" I urged.

"Your feet," he quickly offered.

Like most women, I'm sensitive about various parts of my body. However, I can't ever remember my feet embarra.s.sing me. "Feet don't fail me now," I laughed to myself. I pursued this issue without haste.

"Do you have a foot fetish?" I innocently blurted.

"As a matter of fact, I do," he smiled. At that moment I was positive he was joking. I started to laugh out loud.

"What are you laughing at?" Francisco inquired.

"I thought you were pulling my leg-no pun intended!"

"No, I actually have a thing for feet," Francisco retorted.

Great, he was another eccentric.

At that point I nervously laughed out loud again because I realized I hadn't had a pedicure in over a month.

"What's so funny now?" he demanded.

When I told him of my nail neglect, he challenged, "Every foot is different. Some look great with pedicures, some look great without."

"What do you mean?' I said.

"Here, I'll show you."

In one hand he held the table's candle, and in the other hand he held a digital camera and scrolled through dozens of photos of women's feet, which he claimed to have taken that day alone!! You might have heard of "saved by the bell." I was saved by a set-an extraordinarily long set of instrumental jazz music that fascinated "Francisco the Foot Man." Before the set was over, I politely excused myself to go the ladies' room, which is apparently taboo, yet Francisco's fixation on the piano player was undisturbed by my leaving. Before I knew it, my open-toed shoes and I were at the Duane Street platform, eagerly waiting for the train to arrive. Once aboard the train I found myself curiously staring at women's feet. What is it with these fetishes? While concentrating on feet, I realized that I actually found most women's feet quite disturbing to look at. With a size ten shoe and flat feet to boot, I never had the problem most women suffer from, which is insisting upon squas.h.i.+ng their feet into shoes way too small in a vain effort to prove that their feet are actually smaller than they appear. Let's face it, there's not much you can do with a size ten. I would rather be comfortable than vain in that department. I choose other areas in which to be self-conscious.

Feeling a well-deserved sense of emotional soundness, I climbed the subway stairs to 34th Street. For the first time in a long time, I felt rather good about myself. If I remember correctly, Francisco did say he admired my feet and was not repulsed by them, didn't he? Therefore, I thought at that point that I'd take his bizarre compliment positively. Don't we all enjoy a compliment once in a while, even if it is backhanded (there's no such word as back-footed, is there?)?

Once again, like in a dream, I appeared in my building's vestibule. It was like that the whole week. Fragments of time seemed to escape me while I safely persevered.

"You look a tad frazzled, Trish," my good-natured doorman, Ralph, said.

"No, just a little s.p.a.cey the last few days," I replied.

As I said this, I thought I saw Ralph's face twitch as if he suffered some strange pang of discomfort or even downright pain. "Are you all right, Ralph?" I inquired.

"Oh, I guess, it's obvious."

"What is?" I urged.

"Oh, these d.a.m.n new shoes my wife insisted I wear are killing my feet."

At that moment I broke into uncontrollable laughter.

"I guess you don't like them either, do you?"

I never answered him. I walked to the elevator with my arm above my head waving back to him, giggling like a child. I honestly could not have another conversation about feet that night, for all the shoes in Imelda Marcos's closet. I apologized the next day for my rude departure, and even went as far as explaining myself to good old Ralph, and I called in an appointment to Natalie's Nail Salon for both a manicure and especially a pedicure as well.

11.

If Your Date Is Flashy or Pretentious, Chances Are He Is Hunting for a Trophy.

September-December 1999.

Every September, school starts and teachers must leave the summer behind. It normally takes both student and teacher a good three weeks to settle in. With no indication of autumn in sight (because Long Island is notorious for Indian summers, sometimes lasting until the beginning of November), I found myself, for the first time in many years, not only comfortable with my new cla.s.s and my old princ.i.p.al, but also with my even older single status.

Although the days were getting shorter, it was warmer than most Septembers had been in recent memory. Unfortunately my apartment building super jumped the gun. He ordered his staff to turn off the building's air-conditioning and begin the heating season by the first of October. Here it was Sat.u.r.day, October 9, eighty-three degrees with the sun blazing, and I was stuck on the sixteenth floor of an apartment building with no air-conditioning. Worse yet, my apartment was on the 34th Street side, directly facing the noonday sun. My Sat.u.r.day cleaning ch.o.r.es had to wait until the evening. In the elevator I had a very unique thought: rather than another senseless movie or even more senseless shopping spree, I decided to take a cab to the New York Public Library. My brother John had always recommended cla.s.sic American and British novels for me to read. I haven't had the heart to tell him I don't have time for long boring novels and I am at least a half-generation younger than he. Another thing is that he teaches college literature and I teach kindergarten. His reading is much different from mine. However, ironically I couldn't sleep the night before because of the heat. At 2 AM I found myself sitting in front of the television watching the late, late movie, Breakfast at Tiffany's. This was an early sixties film based on Truman Capote's novel of the same name, which John suggested I read. He thought the character Holly Golightly would amuse me because of her penchant for the finer things in life. After enjoying the film tremendously and understanding why John connected me and Holly, I headed toward the New York Public Library to read the book. It has often been rumored that the New York Public Library has one of the best air-conditioning systems of any public building in New York. Even if I couldn't finish it in one sitting as he claimed I would, I could borrow the book and finish it at my leisure. I really loved the story, and if the book were half as good as the film, I would call John and tell him so.

In fact, I didn't finish the book, and I used my library card for only the third time in two and a half years of living in the city. Walking down Fifth Avenue with a library book under my arm made me feel like I was back in high school. This elevated feeling made me giddy. It was truly an innocent experience, because I realized at that point I had forsaken one of the great arts, namely literature, for the others. As an avid photographer, theatre lover, and art museum patron, I realized what was missing in my artistic life. Cla.s.sic literature, one of the oldest art forms, is an ingredient not to be omitted from the recipe of one's artistic life. I couldn't wait to get home and sit in front of that old box fan and try to finish Breakfast at Tiffany's. As I opened the door to my small apartment, which was more of a convection oven since the temperature was still eighty-six degrees at 5:05 PM, I noticed my answering machine blinking. I wondered if that was Marc returning the call that I had left for him earlier this morning.

Marc responded with a photograph depicting a well-built, dark-skinned, dark-haired diamond dealer from Westchester County. His bio revealed an Italian-Israeli heritage with a flair for the exotic. Upon closer inspection of the photograph, I noticed he was wearing neither an ordinary suit nor ordinary shoes. It appeared as if he had four rings, two on each hand, and none of which were in the wedding category. What confused me was the sparkle emanating from one of his ears. What sized diamond earring would make that glare in the photograph? But there was more to look at in the photograph. As much as I like a well-paved driveway that accommodates a foreign car, this appeared to be over the top. His brand-new S-cla.s.s Mercedes was sitting on a quarry-tiled circular driveway in front of two Doric columns straddling a marble staircase. To top it all off, everything looked immaculate.

I discovered that Marc was an avid New York Yankees fan. It could be coincidence or the power of suggestion regarding his appearance, but I thought that he was a dead-ringer for Yankees shortstop Derek Jeter! He was drop-dead gorgeous! He probably dates model-types, I said to myself. For a few minutes I felt the insecurities creep in. Marc displayed a great sense of humor over the phone. The conversation flowed and was quite enjoyable, so we planned to meet the next night.

He insisted on picking me up in front of my apartment. Going against my better judgment, I agreed. I guess it was that magnificent car or that suit that persuaded me, but nevertheless, I'm sorry I did. He seemed a bit pretentious at first, when he pulled up in his Mercedes, blaring disco music and wearing color-coordinated shades. He was overdressed, to say the least. His behavior was also more pretentious than it needed to be. I hadn't gotten out of the building before Madeline, a big-chested model-type tart, who lived in 12A, was leaning over the pa.s.senger's side admiring the upholstery. I stood there bewildered. I felt invisible. Although I had recently lost ten pounds, I was feeling self-conscious. The only thing I could see was that diamond earring and those pearly white teeth smiling at Madeline, as if he had certainly been down that road before. After what felt like an hour, but was only a couple of minutes, I ventured forth.

"Good evening, Madeline, nice sweats.h.i.+rt. Were you running?"

"Only errands, Trish. Does he belong to you?" she demanded.

"Belongs is a strong word, Madeline."

"Well, ciao for now. Have fun. Bye, Marc." Madeline said.

Hmm, it only took her a couple of minutes to get his name. I wondered what more she got. I realized I should have met him at the restaurant.

"You two acquainted?" Marc asked.

"Like oil and water," I retorted.

Marc laughed-or shall I say snickered? This behavior unnerved me. He didn't know me well enough (or her for that matter) to find this amusing.

"You're beautiful," Marc said.

"Thank you," I responded.

"Nice to meet you, Trisha," Marc added.

He had all the earmarks of a player: well seasoned, well dressed, and quick moving. I decided to divert his attention from good ole Madeline and compliment him on his car and attire. Puffing up more like a blowfish than a peac.o.c.k, he displayed an ego the size of his bank account. I thought he would ramble on endlessly with self-adulation as the core but he surprised me. For the entire ride to Celeste's in Little Italy, he wanted to talk only about me, my family, and my aspirations. I guess first impressions aren't always correct.

Believe it or not that was one of the best evenings I had had in recent memory. Celeste's isn't one of those typical Italian restaurants where you're seated at white tablecloth gla.s.s-topped tables with gratuitous fake flowers in a cheesy plastic vase. Celeste's is renowned for its Italian home style atmosphere, which includes a nightly party. For those unfamiliar with Italian home style, there is no menu and no individual seating. Patrons sit at long wooden tables on wooden benches next to strangers. Everyone eats what is prepared that evening, which is posted on a chalkboard outside on the sidewalk. The walls are bedecked with photographs of everyone from Charlie Chaplin to Robert De Niro, past and present patrons. The only option we had was to have the mussels in red sauce or white sauce, and the red or white wine in carafes intermittently placed along the tables. Everyone paid the same price and it was all you can eat. The roving musicians only added to the ambiance, gathering every half hour at the back of the dining hall to play Italian-American favorites at quite the volume. When our mouths weren't full with the most delicious Italian delicacies, we were singing along. When was the last time I could honestly say that I had so much fun in so little time with so many strangers?

Marc couldn't have been more of a gentleman. When he wasn't praising his newfound love, mainly me, he was speaking in Italian to some of the old men and women, who were obviously regulars. To top it all off, Marc joined the band to sing everyone's favorite, "That's Amore," with great zest and precision. Although I thought we'd revisit this place a number of times in the next couple of weeks, we never went back. I even suggested during the six-week courts.h.i.+p that we return to Celeste's. His reticence not only regarding Celeste's but also any other quaint and romantic restaurant disturbed me. It was then that I realized Celeste's was only the ground floor regarding impressing me with his dining repertoire. Two nights later we ate at Chez Nous Bien (a five-star restaurant near Gramercy Park), and I realized each time we dined, it was one step better than the last. What was next-dinner in Paris?

Marc even took me shopping between dinner dates and insisted on treating me to some of the nicest dinner wear I had ever owned. Most men are oblivious to what women wear. I discovered that another oddity that he possessed was his matching-outfit purchases. He always wanted us to match our attire, including our accessories.

Before I knew it, it was Thanksgiving and I had a four-day weekend coming. Trudging through another pre-Thanksgiving week of handprint turkeys and Native American and Pilgrim pageants, I was ready for a fun four-day furlough. Thanksgiving dinner was to be spent with my family; however, the morning was devoted to the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. Charlene, my parade pal, called in the double-date ticket. Charlene and her husband Jared were to meet me at my apartment at 8:30 AM. We were going to take our two-avenue jaunt to meet Marc at Penn Station at 9:00 AM. Then we would make our way to the parade. In low-keyed fas.h.i.+on, the three of us meandered to Madison Square Garden. In a matter of minutes, Marc appeared, dressed to the nines. I couldn't understand why he was so overdressed, and questioned him about it. He answered, "I need to be, and later you'll find out why." This made me mildly concerned. Marc's flair for mystery was always lighthearted and amusing, but this time his face showed a sense of seriousness I hadn't recognized before. When I looked at Charlene, who overheard our conversation, she smiled and rolled her eyes. At that point I thought it was more than appropriate to introduce both my friends to Marc, who offered a polite handshake and small talk with both. Even the way Marc held my arm was strange. Something was different about him, and I couldn't put my finger on it.

We took the A, C, E line up to Columbus Circle to get to our planned viewing spot. But after exiting the subway and walking several blocks down along Broadway, he insisted on turning east down 57th Street and continuing for several blocks. When I asked him why we were pa.s.sing the area in which we planned to watch the parade, he whispered, "You'll see." It was then that Charlene alerted me that the parade is in the other direction. I shrugged my shoulders and raised my eyebrows in complete confusion and kept walking as Marc hastily pulled me along. The street sign read 57th Street and 5th Avenue, the corner of Tiffany & Company.

He stopped cold and turned around and said, "This is as good a place as any."

"I beg your pardon, but Charlene has friends reserving a spot for us at Broadway and 57th," I said.

"Does she have one of these?" Marc asked, producing a small box.

His Ches.h.i.+re grin and boyish charm compelled me forward to see what was inside the box. I honestly hoped it wasn't what I thought it was, but it was. It was the most gaudy, obtrusive, obscene diamond engagement ring I had ever seen in my life. There was no proportion or balance to the setting. It appeared to be at least ten carats! Obviously, one of his jewelers had put this together for him in haste.

"You won't find one of these in there," Marc proclaimed while pointing to the corner window of Tiffany's. "d.a.m.n right," I thought to myself. Tiffany's wouldn't carry anything as tasteless as that. What was I to say? What was I to do? I stole a glance at Charlene, who pretended not to be listening or watching the embarra.s.sing moment.

I whispered, "I can't, Marc. We've only been seeing each other for six weeks." He stood without talking. I continued and lied, "It's beautiful! I just can't, but thank you."

"Will you at least think about it?" Marc questioned.

"Sure, let's just enjoy the parade. Thanks again. It was very thoughtful."

Charlene immediately felt my embarra.s.sment and confusion and yelped, "We're going to be late, and we have to go three avenue blocks in two minutes, not to miss the start of the parade."

Now I was pulling him like a deflated balloon. As I thought of the word balloon, I saw the huge Macy's turkey making its way down Broadway and heard Charlene yell, "It started, it started!" For the remainder of the day, Marc said only ten words to me. Nevertheless, Charlene, Jared, and I had a great time at the parade, pointing, laughing, and taking photos for the entire duration.

It was then time to make the trip out to Long Island to my parents' house for Thanksgiving dinner. Marc said he wasn't feeling well and would accompany me only if I insisted. I told him to go home and get rest. I added that we'd talk tomorrow. The ride in Charlene and Jared's SUV was a comfortable one. Charlene's inspiration and "attagirl" att.i.tude made me feel good about my decision regarding Marc's proposal. Even Jared agreed that six weeks was way too soon to propose and added that it was also inappropriate and presumptuous of Marc on all fronts. Believe it or not, I didn't miss Marc at all at my parents' house, and no one asked where he was. Ironically, my brother John was also there alone and we had time to catch up on literary topics. I told him about Breakfast at Tiffany's and the bizarre incident that I just endured hours before, and he laughed and stated simply, "Sometimes life imitates art, Trish." I smiled and shook my head and made a beeline for another helping of stuffing.

During the next two weeks, I heard nothing from Marc. As a matter of fact, it was December 14 when he contacted me, strangely enough, via e-mail. The message said: "If you're interested, my holiday office party is on December 21, and there are people I'd like you to meet. I reluctantly agreed, but told him that the week before Christmas was busy for me. I would meet him at the party. I got the address and the time and the attire, which was surprisingly formal. December 21 came, and I found myself on Park Avenue at a hotel bar waiting for Marc. It didn't strike me at first, but soon I realized that I was the only female there. He told me 8:00, and by 8:35, I was ready to leave. Although the men in the bar all seemed professional, they were casually dressed, which made me feel silly in a gown. Maybe this wasn't where the party was. I looked around again and there wasn't another woman in sight. It looked like a yuppie bachelor party.

As I made my way toward the door, Marc came through it. He had on a sweater, jeans, and loafers.

"Why are you dressed like that?" I asked him.

"Like what?" he snapped.

"Like that," I said pointedly. "You said it was formal."

"Oh, I meant casual."

"Where's the party?" I inquired.

"You're in it," he snickered.

"Fellas, I want you to meet someone." I heard him laugh as he was walking away.

I was hot, red hot, with anger. Between my red face and my pale blue gown, I felt like a human Orange Bowl parade float on New Year's Day. That float was not going to be paraded for that jacka.s.s any longer. Even with three-inch heels, I made it out of that bar faster than I thought my legs could carry me. My nostrils never stopped flaring until I was in a cab heading home. To this day I don't know if I imagined it, or heard the men laughing in unison. But it doesn't matter. I wouldn't have anything to do with that joker again.

12.

If Something Smells Fishy, It Usually Is.

April 2000.

The following three months were some of the coldest winter months I had ever experienced. Between the freezing temperatures and frequent snowstorms, I rarely went out at night. I found myself reading voraciously while sporting my flannel nightgown. I couldn't stop! Reading was addictive, especially during the winter months. I remember one particular week in February, just after my birthday, when I was in the middle of three different novels: one romance, one detective, and one British cla.s.sic. I finally found out what a pip was, other than one of Gladys Knight's singers. Charles d.i.c.kens was right; Great Expectations was his best novel. I knew I was getting bad when I borrowed Melville's Moby d.i.c.k from the public library. But I'm glad I did because what a whale of a tale I found myself in, only five weeks later. Captain Ahab couldn't have prepared me any better.

April of 2000 was much drier than the previous year. It was so dry that the Easter plants looked puny and unhealthy. For the first time in years I didn't buy any and felt bad as a result. My cheesy silk flowers would have to hold me over till summer. Late one evening, toward the end of April, I accidentally stumbled upon the Discovery Channel. The show devoted itself to deep-sea fis.h.i.+ng, namely marlin, swordfish, and tuna. I normally don't watch this sort of thing, yet found myself enthralled. It kept reminding me of Ishmael's faithful journey in Moby d.i.c.k. The sheer strength of these great fish was outstanding. Not only did the fight of these fish fascinate me, but also the deep determination of the fishermen was interesting.

It was at that time I received an e-mail from New Roch.e.l.le. The sender was Jay, an avid fly fisherman. I laughed at the coincidence, for it was only weeks ago that I struggled through the nearly 600 pages of Moby d.i.c.k, and now I had a fisherman on the line myself. He stated in his note that he enjoyed fis.h.i.+ng in general, fly-fis.h.i.+ng in particular, and was currently making a living from it. "Hmm, a rugged outdoorsman," I thought, which reminded me of my childhood days of watching Grizzly Adams on television. My mind's eye saw a muscular, six foot tall, bearded, adventurous daredevil who knew the aquatic life. Maybe this was just what I needed-a break from the hustle and bustle of the city streets and the overdressed "glitter boys" who were unsuccessfully trying to impress me.

I responded to Jay's e-mail and requested a recent photo. He sent me what appeared to be a photo of a face behind a counter in a bait shop-a counter full of fis.h.i.+ng paraphernalia and crab cages. To make matters worse, he had a baseball cap on, which appeared to have a variety of hooks hanging from the sides of the hat. The picture was obscured by all the c.r.a.p on the counter, and the image quality was poor. I decided to decline.

Now that I think of it, he was as relentless as Ahab himself, yet unfortunately I was his great white whale. Each time he contacted me, he described himself differently. One time he described himself as five foot eleven inches with brown hair and blue eyes. Another time he described himself as funny and cuddly. I should have realized that "cuddly" is also a euphemism for someone who is overweight. I didn't mind a few extra pounds, for I was over the normal weight for my height, but I didn't find that we had much in common from reading his note, so I didn't respond. After two more e-mails from Jay, imploring me to give him a chance, I thought a phone call couldn't hurt. After speaking with him for more than an hour, he had me in st.i.tches. So we arranged a date for a few days later.

He picked a seafood restaurant in the South Street Seaport-how apropos. I took a cab to Harbour Lights (a renowned seafood restaurant in the district). It had been some time since I had been down to South Street. Ironically, in the previous ten years I think I had been to Fisherman's Wharf in San Francisco more often. It was good to be back. Although heavily laden with tourists and the fish industry itself, I enjoyed the great s.h.i.+ps and shops of the district.