Raspberry Beret, Part II

I was about to turn and run when Beret waved and came over. So, I took a deep breath, put on my best smile, and waved back.

We sat down to dinner and started chatting. I knew he lived with his mother (which, as my loyal readers may recall from previous stories, is a bad sign), and I knew that his job was, shall we say, less than glamorous...

Unless, of course, your idea of glamour is being a parking garage attendant at a grocery store.

But I was hoping that there was a reason for these drawbacks. Perhaps he was a student? This is a very popular excuse for living with ones' parents and having a shitty job when one is over the age of 21. Perhaps he was even a graduate student. Maybe he was studying to be an architect, or a lawyer, or a philosopher, or...something.

Anything.

Apparently, the last time I took a college course was in 2006. School and I don't get along...

replied Beret to my query.

"What do you mean?" I asked, ignoring (for now) the incorrect use of the word "apparently".

Well, for example, when I took algebra in high school, I knew the quadratic formula...you know, a squared plus b squared equals c squared? But I couldn't figure anything else out...

Those of you who know anything about math may begin chuckling.

Now, anyone who knows me will tell you that my math skills are notoriously bad. I didn't know what the quadratic formula was, but I knew it wasn't that...

So, now we have a guy who lives with his mother, works as a garage attendant, and sucks even harder at math than I do.

Fabulous.

So, I asked him what his aspirations were for the future. He told me he wanted to be an actor or a writer. I had actually already guessed the actor part- he told his (very unfunny) jokes in the painfully forced manner of a bad actor at an audition, a trait which is not unique to New York City (and presumably Los Angeles), but is certainly very prevalent and very annoying here.

I asked about his writing. He proceeded to tell a ridiculously long and graphic story involving murder, rape, incest, and Mafia gangs.

We will now pause for a brief learning moment: Murder, rape, incest and the Mafia are not appropriate dinner conversation. Especially not on a first date. In an Italian restaurant. 

All while continually using the word "apparently" incorrectly. This amusing grammar tick was used more than 26 times.

I counted.

Upon finishing his story, he paused, closed his eyes, and put his hand over his heart.

Shit, I thought, He's having a heart attack. What's the protocol for that? I guess I could give him CPR. That's acceptable first-date behavior. But would I have to go with him to the hospital? Or could I just call 911 and sneak out the back?...

"Are you ok?" I asked.


Fine. Just give me a minute.


"Do you want to go outside or something?"

 No, he replied, now placing his other hand on his forehead. Eventually he opened his eyes and put his hands back on his lap.

"What happened?" I asked.

Well, you see, I'm really nervous, and sometimes when that happens, my body just stops working.

Right...

So, the date continued, and we prepared to leave. I asked how he would be getting home. He said he would probably just take a cab, unless he could find a phone to call his mother to come pick him up.

Did I mention that he doesn't have a cell phone? Homeless schizophrenic bums in Central Park have cell phones. Five-year-olds prancing around the Upper East Side on their way to day cares that cost more than most colleges have cell phones. 

This employed, adult man did not have a cell phone. With which to call his mother. To pick him up. From a date. 

He offered to walk me to the subway, and asked how I had enjoyed the date.

Learning Moment #2: If you have to ask how the date is going, it is not going well.

I said something to imply that I preferred the date to, say, poking my eye out with a rusty fork.

He then asked what kind of man I was looking for.

Not you.

"Oh, you know...I don't like to have a type...I think I'll know him when I see him..."

Yes, I am Grand Master of the evasive answer.

Did you see him tonight? Beret asked.

I was trying to come up with another masterfully evasive answer when I spied the subway. Sweet escape! I thought.

Until I realized he intended to follow me into the subway and wait with me for the train.

So, I was forced to mumble some bullshit about not really looking for a serious relationship right now, blah blah blah..."Oh look! There's my train! Bye now!"

As I darted away, I comforted myself with the knowledge that that would be the last I would hear from Beret Boy.

Until, of course, I received an email that night.

Which I did not respond to.

And a call the next day.

Which I ignored, and did not return.

And one last week, which I could not pick up, as I was in Spain, eyeing men who may still live with their mothers (can someone please tell me how European men manage to make that seem sweet and endearing?), but who at least know the proper art to beret wearing.