In the spirit of Valentine’s Day, and inspired by a recent trend, I am pleased to present:
WAYS NOT TO HIT ON SOMEONE
by Bree Barton
Exhibit A
“Ike”
I met "Ike" at a benefit where a local artist was raising money for her work in Haiti. As I perused exquisite silk scarves and photographs of beautiful big-eyed Haitians, big-eyed Ike perused my ass. I could feel his gaze boring into me like a magnifying glass poised over a voluptuous ant. When I looked up, we made awkward eye contact from across the room. This was all Ike needed: like a flash of lightning he was off, past the silent auction sheets and Diri ak Pwa and immediately by my side. He struck up a conversation, and I idly chatted back, unaware that I had just tacitly agreed to relinquish the next two hours of my life.
At one point during our two-hour conversation – not sure if it was before or after he astutely pointed out the pink lace on my bra – Ike fed me what seemed to be a genuine compliment.
“You know what? You’re funny.”
He said this as if it were shocking that a woman might actually be, you know, funny. As in, humorous. As in, a sayer of witty things.
“Well you know, I
was a standup comic,” I said jokingly.
“Yeah, right,” Ike leered. “You’re not
that funny.”
Thank you, Assface.
Ike didn’t seem to think this was at all insulting, and I was amused enough to keep the conversation going. Over the course of the next hour, Ike kept insisting we had a future together. “I really think we could have a relationship,” he said, and I kept trying to explain that I had no interest in having a relationship with him, now or ever. But because I could see where the conversation was going and I’m not very good at saying no, I decided to preempt the inevitable digit-request by offering them up myself.
“I know you’re going to ask for my number,” I said, “so here it is. You can call, but I’m telling you right now, I’m not going to answer. If you leave a message, it’s highly unlikely that I’ll return it. But don’t worry: I’ll probably feel guilty about not getting back to you. Just so you know.”
Ike smirked. I could tell from his expression that he was convinced I was only playing hard to get. After all, I’d just given him my number; that must mean I wanted him to call. Most important, he liked my ass
and my hair! Obviously, we had an inevitable future together.
Yeah, right. I’m not
that stupid.
As promised, when Ike called, I didn’t answer. When I picked up his voicemail, I didn’t feel that guilty, either. I didn’t return the call.
But Ike wasn’t giving up so easily. A few days later, he sent me a text message.
“Would love to see ur smile again” the text said. How sweet, I thought, and went about smiling in the privacy and sanctity of my own home.
A few days later, I received another text.
“Wanna make out later?”
Ike was obviously changing tactics, probably in an attempt to be playful. Still, a little creepy. I didn’t respond.
The third and final text came a few days after that.
“Maybe this will work. Lets have sex tnite. Is 11 good?”
JESUS CHRIST.
Suffice it to say, I didn’t respond. I haven’t heard from him since. What an alarming progression of intent: smiles, then French kissing, then sex, all in a one-sided textual conversation. And this from a self-proclaimed “hopeless romantic.” I shudder to think what the
unromantics are like.
Exhibit B
The Deputy Shellfish Constable
This Monday I made the trek to Provincetown to attend the weekly Open Mic Night at Mew’s Cafe. The temperature was around 16 and the wind chill made it feel like 9 degrees, possibly the coldest weather I’ve ever experienced. Mapquest told me that the bar was located at 329 Commercial St.; I parked my car around the 180 block, thinking that it would be an easy minute’s walk. After two blocks, I had just made it to the 200’s and had lost feeling in three toes. Realizing I wasn’t going to make it, I abandoned the plan, sheepishly fled back to my car, and drove to 329 Commercial like the thin-skinned Texan I am.
When I got to Mew’s, the bar was hopping. I sat down at the table closest to the stage with an excellent Kenyan beer and, through avid toe-tapping, slowly regained feeling in my toes. After about half an hour I got up to go the bathroom where I stood for several minutes in glorious sun worship, face uplifted, basking in the thrilling warmth of the heater affixed to the ceiling.
On my way back to the table, I stopped by the bar to get another drink.
A man in a poncho swung out in front of me. “Sorry I’m late,” he said, and suddenly a Tusker beer with a fresh glass magically appeared from within the folds of his poncho.
“I didn’t order another beer,” I answered, wondering why he was dressed differently than the other servers.
“I know, I said I’m sorry I’m late.”
Clearly we weren’t understanding each other. He wasn’t late; he was early. I hadn’t ordered another beer at all. And how’d he know I was going to get another Tusker?
“How’d you know I wasn’t going to order something different?” I asked.
He looked confused. “You over there?” He pointed at my table.
I nodded.
“Let’s go,” he said, and began walking. Only then did I realize that he wasn’t actually a server at all; he was a bar patron who had generously offered me a drink and whom I had proceeded to interrogate. I am an awkward human being, I thought to myself. Is it obvious I don’t often go to bars?
At my table we screamed our introductions, trying to make ourselves heard over the guitar blaring twelve inches away. “I’m BREE!” I said. “Thank YOU for the DRINK!”
“I’m the DEPUTY SHELLFISH CONSTABLE of WELLFLEET!” he said. “It’s the COOLEST JOB EVER!”
I didn’t press.
Right about then, the band took a breather between songs. In the ensuing quiet, I took the opportunity to tell my new companion that I, too, lived in Wellfleet.
“Another Wellfleetian!” he exclaimed. “Whereabouts?”
“Near the library,” I said.
“Chequessett Neck Road,” he said softly. And then, leaning forward, he whispered my exact street address.
You could have heard my heart stop.
“Ummm…yes, that’s my address. How do you…??”
At that moment, several thoughts were racing through my head. The Deputy Shellfish Constable is going to kill me, I thought. He’s been stalking me for weeks. He sits in front of my window at all hours of the night while I sit, vulnerable and illuminated, Googling “Heath Ledger Mary Kate scandal!” at 1:30 am. He’s planned the whole thing out: he followed me here tonight and is going to get me drunk on Tuskers, then rape and murder me in some kinky fashion using crab claws and melted butter. Afterwards he’ll chop me up and toss me into an abandoned boat with the shellfish —not the law-abiding ones, but those little shelled bastards that make it damn near impossible for the Constable to keep the peace.
As it turns out, my fears were unwarranted. The Deputy Shellfish Constable had simply guessed my correct address because he had once lived in the adjacent studio apartment himself. That explained his uncanny prescience. Still, it’s a little unnerving to sit down with a total stranger and have him tell you precisely where you live.
Exhibit C
Forget Exhibit C. I can’t take any more. Romance is overrated. After all, the original St. Valentine was imprisoned, tortured, and beheaded. Modern dating seems equally perilous. I think I’ll pass, thanks.
Me + a bottle of wine = a good Valentine’s Day.
This week at the dentist's office, I had one cavity filled. I also had my self-confidence gutted. And my insurance paid for both!
