As planned, we met at the Starbucks on 73rd and Columbus. I had left my apartment around 6:40 and arrived at the store at exactly 6:57. I thought this was great timing on my part, but clearly not good enough for the Fest. As I approached the door, I didn't see him outside so I figured that he was either inside or running a couple of minutes late (which would be understandable considering he was coming from Brooklyn). I was looking forward to potentially having about five minutes of peace to recuperate from my sweaty walk and train ride, and maybe even try to take a shit before the trail of tears length walk upon which we were about to embark. Unfortunately, all of these dreams were shattered within seconds of me considering them, when all of a sudden, with lightening speed and a gazelle-like leap, the Fest flew out of the Starbucks in all of his hairless glory, with an outwardly extended hand and a pleather messenger bag flapping behind him. The remainder of the day's sun glimmered on his razor-nicked skull (which, by the way, revealed that he was actually on the verge of total hair loss), and for a brief, shining moment, I felt like a bald Jesus had landed before me.
So we shook hands, and his was probably the sweatiest I have ever felt. I almost wanted to be like, "don't be nervous, Fest. I don't bite," but that would be a lie, and you should never lie to Jesus. He gave me an elongated once over before he decided to make a comment about how he promised he would not kill and dismember me in the park. Real nice, Fest. Those kinds of jokes are okay on the Internet, but not in person where you are clearly carrying an oversized messenger bag containing God only knows what. I mean, you're a measly intern for God sakes. What could you possibly have in there?
Anyway, we walk into Starbucks. I make note of the fact that I will most definitely be ordering an iced tea because of the disaster that will inevitably follow my regular Venti iced coffee order if physical movement is involved more than 100 feet from a restroom. Of course, the only part of this note that I share with Fest is that I will be drinking an iced tea this evening. We both approach the register and the cashier gives me my second once-over in the past three minutes and exclaims "Oh, you must be Ginge. Fest refused to order without you!! I kept asking what he wanted and he was like 'no, no, I am waiting for a date'". So the Fest was not only at Starbucks a couple of minutes early, he was there so early that he had nothing better to do than to divulge unnecessary details to a complete stranger.
So Fest ordered for both of us, getting an iced tea for himself as well. Besides his abnormally sweaty hand, this is the second sign that he is beyond nervous and I find it slightly endearing...for about two seconds until we got to the dressings table and he asked me "what do you put in this?" while gesturing accusingly toward to the cup of iced tea with his index finger like it was a vat of ferret droppings. I told him I usually do two Equals because I never use real sugar. At this point, a real man (save for the Diabetic ones) would be like "ew" and substitute the Equals for regular sugar packets, or do something to personalize it for themselves. Not the Fest. He took two equals from the container, and copied me step by step as I tore my packets, dumped them into the drink, recapped it, and ferociously shook it around - all with the innocent, eager expression of a small child trying to please its parent (the bald head didn't help to this image either, by the way).
So not much happened between Starbucks and the Strawberry Fields Pavilion besides us namedropping people that both of us might have in common. Once we actually got to the pavilion, we took a seat on one of the benches facing the fountain and the Central Park Boathouse and commence an hour and a half long conversation that included a few memorable moments:
As mentioned previously, the Fest is from the Midwest. He revealed more about this, stating that he had no Jewish friends growing up (similar to me), but that he also had to hide his Jewishness because it was "dangerous" out there. Ok, Fest, now wait one second. You mean to tell me that people tried to fuck with you? I mean, that's just not wise. Why would you ever approach a wild-eyed bald man wielding a mop?
He also felt that it was appropriate to discuss how all of his friends from high school were married and had kids now. He conceded that he felt awkward when he went home and hung out with them, but that the reason he came to New York was to find a Jew with whom to do the same. As he made this statement, he had a sick little smirk on his face. It was the first time during the date that I noticed his smile - clearly another vestige of his upbringing in a region whose lack of Jews inevitably means a lack of quality orthodontic care. His teeth were like fun-sized yellow Chiclets. While he did have his front teeth, his canines trumped their existence to the point that I felt I was looking into the mouth of one of cats with which I will inevitably spend the rest of my life.
Trying to hide my disgust for the ideas of dirty, Gatorade-stained children and landlocked states, I decided that it was an appropriate time to casually reach into my bag and check my phone for the time and/or any messages. This, of course, was a huge mistake. With Patrick Batemen-like accuracy, the Fest snapped at me for my misstep in date-night etiquette:
Fest: IS EVERYTHING OKAY WITH YOUR PHONE?
Me: What?
Fest: WELL WHAT OTHER REASON WOULD YOU HAVE TO LOOK AT THE PHONE? HM?
[It was here that I decided to make him immediately regret his decision to confront me.]
Me: Oh. Well my mom had her last breast cancer surgery today so I was seeing if my dad sent me any messages about how she's been doing since he picked her up from the hospital. [Do not worry, I am not going to hell in a hand basket for this one. I talked to my mom before I went on the date, and she said if I needed to send any SOS messages to people in the middle of the date, I should use her surgery as an excuse to shut him up, kind of like she does when my dad confronts her about credit card bills.]
Fest: Oh, er, eh, meh, aldskjf;lakdsjf;lasdjf;ladsfjadf. [That's right, Fest. Don't play with fire because you're gonna get burned right back.]
The silence that ensued was legendary. He was visibly squirming in his seat and I watched his gaze dart between a homeless man blowing bubbles and an adorable old couple holding hands by the Boathouse lake. I began to consider which of these two scenes bore the closest resemblance to Fest's future love life in NYC and decided that if I was getting the cats, he was getting the bubbles.
So I let the awkwardness fester, quite literally, for about another five minutes before I suggested that we walk further into the park. I figured a change of scenery would diffuse the situation that I was secretly enjoying a little too much. As we were walking, I asked him basic questions, starting with how it was playing football at Cornell. This question only led to further disillusionment on my behalf, as Fester conceded that the shirt in his profile picture was for intramural football, not the real team. I think that he sensed my disappointment because without hesitation, he blurted, "BUT...I have a brown belt in Karate!"
Is this bitch serious? I guess this Karate obsession is how he survived his young life as a Jew in the bible-hugging Heartland. I was actually looking forward to this date, for if nothing else, to prove to my friends that not everyone I choose to go out with is a nerd - that I am capable of SOME variety. But no. The one "athlete" I manage to find is an expert in the sport millions of worried mothers enlist their wimpy children in every year to teach them "self-defense" against school bullies. I know this from personal experience, because my brother and I did Karate for years. What other choice did our mother have? We were both red-haired AND Jewish. For once, I wanted to cruise around with the bully! Not his unfortunate bald victim.
I acted interested for about five minutes before he questioned me about my own athletic involvement. I admitted that I used to fence and now I pretty much just run when I have the time. He took this as an opportunity to try to sell the idea of mixed martial arts and Karate to me, that I should know how to "protect" myself on the "mean streets" of Harlem besides with my pink Mase canister. For the second time within fifteen minutes, I was forced me to ask myself the question: Is this bitch serious? My streets are not mean and most all of my neighbors are sweet old people or young families. The alcoholics all know where I live now and I take cat calls as a compliment. All it means is that "I still got it." Plus, I too have a Starbucks on my block.
But Fest could not believe it. He asked how I planned to defend myself in the event of an attack. At this point, I really didn't give a shit what happened for the rest of this date. He snapped at me for glancing at my phone and dispelled my initial impression of him as a rough and tumble Ivy League jock. He was nice, and he was clearly trying, but I was annoyed and decided it was time to drop the one bomb that most every guy I have come across in my post-Maryland life cannot stand: Smoking. I don't really smoke anymore, and it was more of a social/stress thing in college, but knowing how many guys absolutely hate it, I decided to use it as a way to metaphorically Mase the Fest:
"Well, my number one method of protecting myself on the 'mean streets' is smoking large amounts of cigarettes. Really, if you're walking fast and chain-smoking, people typically won't come near you. Would you approach someone with a lit device in their hand, let alone a menthol one? Probably not."
Unfortunately, the Fest did not take the bait. Rather than responding with the typical "ew, that's so unhealthy" or "you're going to be ugly in a matter of years," he bit back:
"Ginge, I could not agree more. And you have that look to you...like as it is, I probably would be afraid to approach you. But with a cigarette in your hand? Oh man. You must look like such a bad ASS. But menthols? That's...um interesting? Wouldn't have pictured that choice."
Damnit, Fest. WHY are you agreeing with me? It's one thing to copy my Starbucks order, but you think me chain smoking my way to safety is a great idea? And why can't you picture me with menthols? Hm? That is a little close-minded of you, don't you think? Last I checked, you were "an aspiring prosecutor," not an expert in market research.
So after this enlightening portion of the conversation, I suggested we head back towards the train. We made some more small talk and hugged goodbye, but not before he took one more jab, or should I say, Karate chop at my neighborhood: "Ginge, text me to let me know you got home safely." Okay, dad...except my dad is in his late sixties and still has more hair than you. Boom.
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