Part I: Goodbye Sam
Sam was a pill. One you swallowed sideways and got stuck in your throat. I spent three months dating Sam. Correction- I spent three months trying to break up with Sam, but couldn’t.
Sam and I suffered from a very common problem, one that meant we couldn’t break up. We both needed to be right. It didn’t matter that the relationship was shit and we both knew it. I needed to prove that the break up was her fault, and she needed to prove that it was mine..
“You only want to have sex with me when you’re drunk” I would say, and we would argue that for two hours. Followed by her suggesting that I only wanted to be with her for the sex, and another two-hour argument. To this day I am not entirely certain if she had siblings or followed politics, but I am certain we argued about how I didn’t ask her about either of those things for two hours.
Sam and I didn’t break up really, at some point I just stopped having the fight. Without the constant back-and-forth the drive to keep seeing each other dissipated, and we parted ways. I never did get my books back, but in the long run I am fine sacrificing the $39.95.
Part II: Hello Kim
Kim agreed to meet me for a drink at a NYC bar that insisted on having no name and an unwritten dress code rule that men should wear suspenders. I wore a belt; like an adult. I ordered my whiskey and when the gentleman asked me about the “shape & size of my ice” I realized I was going to be paying far too much for my Jack Daniels. I laid down $10 on the table, and the bartender said, “It’s $12, sir.” When I replied with some quip about taking it neat and saving the $6 ice charge, he did not laugh. The person next to me was “reading The Fountainhead ironically,” or so he told his friend. Which meant two things: 1.) He had no idea what Irony meant 2.) He was entirely not worth knowing.
Kim arrived and sat down, she was an attractive girl but in a very typical way. Farah Fawcett hair, and legs that were meant for summer. She ordered a Gin & Tonic, and attempted to spark up a conversation. It didn’t take long for me to realize that we had nothing in common, but being freshly single with a strong desire for sexual intercourse, I quickly hatched a plan. Whenever the conversation would lull or we she would start to lose interest I would talk about my nephew, and how much I loved him.
“Awww, you sound like the best uncle.” She would reply, entirely unaware that at this point in the game my nephew had been in my presence only once and had slept through the entire visit. Hell, I wasn’t sure at the time what his middle name was… Come to think of it I am still drawing a blank and he is 18 months old now. When stories of the nephew stopped working as easily, I started pulling up random photos of him on my phone.
Part III: The Train Companion
The pictures worked like a charm, and within 10 minutes I was able to navigate us out of this bar and towards the train station. I had pretty reasonably sealed the deal, and she was holding my arm like it was a life-preserver and she was in shark infested waters. We boarded the F train and sat down. It was crowded.
At the next station a man boarded the train brandishing a giant metallic scepter, and a crown of sorts and sat down next to us on Kim’s side. Within minutes of the doors closing he began to mutter loudly to himself a stream of consciousness that would make Jack Kerouac sound like a hack.
“I don’t know man, its cold outside…. It’s fashion week…. The Jews control this city…” he muttered loudly directed at no one in particular. New Yorkers, having long since gotten used to sharing their city with this brand of crazy, followed the rules:
1.) Do not break the imaginary semi-circle perimeter that is set up to make sure everyone behind it is just out of reach of his “beating-scepter”
2.) Stare at your book or phone.
3.) If you have headphones put them on immediately.
4.) Do not make eye contact with the man.
5.) Do not react to anything he is saying.
I broke all of these rules. Almost immediately I began to stare at this man and laugh at his hilarious (occasionally accurate, since it was in fact fashion week) insights. My date and I were definitely not sitting outside “The Bashing Zone,” and I had put away my phone to give the gentleman my undivided attention.
Kim: Can we get off the train here? This man is giving me the creeps.
Homeless man: I got the good Genes… not those fag genes. My parents passed on the good stuff… and I look good wearing them too (he said admiring his pants.)
Me: Are you kidding?! He’s invented his own lexicon, utilizing homophonic heterographs! This is fascinating!
Kim: I don’t feel safe.
Homeless man: It is 47 Degrees outside, and I AM NOT A FAGGOT! WHO SAID THAT?!
Me: What? Don’t worry about it. Think of it as an adventure; there’s a little bit of risk involved in every adventure.
Seven stops later we had arrived at our destination and despite my protests and pleas to remain on the train she forced me off with her. After several steps back in the direction of our neighborhood, I suddenly realized that what had felt like a done deal was now anything but. “Did I show you the photo of him next to a football? Look, they’re the same size.” I said to a clearly disinterested Kim. She was still very smitten with me, and I would certainly be given a second chance, but she was not going to let someone who was this enamored with crazy homeless man into her apartment after a first date.
Little did she know that date two would be a Hardcore Punk band that smelled way more of piss than our mysterious train companion.