Date 3: The Date That Wasn't

Though I promised an all-American Texan in my last post, he was apparently out of town this week and unavailable for a date, so K at IJL told me that instead I would be meeting D. As usual, I remember little of the laundry list of D's attributes, only that he is around 5'8" and African-American.

I arrived at Zaytinya 15 minutes early for our 7:30 date, and I approached the host, asking if he had a reservation under either D or KT. Take a guess at the response. Not only did he not have the promised IJL reservation, he told me that they never take reservations after 6:30. In lieu of another method that would allow me to identify my date, I decided to hover by the main door in order to pounce on lone men who fit the appropriate physical profile. As you might recall, IJL has never made the promised reservation, so this makes three times that I have had to utilize this tactic. I'm much less shy about it than I used to be.

I waited by the door for 40 minutes, leaving only once to nab a glass of wine. During my endless people-watching, I learned that there aren't many black men visiting Zaytinya, and even less walking in alone. I identified only two potential candidates. The first wasn't actually in the restaurant, but was standing outside the window near to where I was lingering. He seemed a bit too old to be D, and though he stood outside alone for at least 20 minutes, he never even came into the restaurant, so odds are low that it was him. The second potential stormed in at around 7:50, looking irritated. He charged up to the host, put his name in for two people (unfortunately I couldn't hear the name, though I desperately tried to eavesdrop), and then ran off to the bar. He was the right age, and about the right height. But I was scared of him. He looked unpleasant, and he didn't even look around at the few people hovering near the host. If he was meeting a woman he didn't know (and was late), don't you think he'd at least glance at the single woman standing by herself near the entrance? He also wasn't particularly attractive, so my motivation to be aggressive was pretty low.

At around 7:55 I decided to wander up to the bar, while keeping an eye on the door. I was not only bored of standing at the entrance, but I was starting to feel pitied by the hosts. I would have left, but unfortunately the sheeting rain outside was accompanied by winds gusting at approximately 600 mph, so I wasn't going anywhere for awhile. I stood at the bar and ordered another glass of wine, while glaring at everyone who had procured a seat. I glared equally intently at their shoes, because they appeared significantly more comfortable than mine. There should be seats in a bar analogous to those designated for the elderly on public transportation, except intended for people with inhumane shoes. The elderly don't go to trendy locales like Zaytinya anyway. My unfortunate situation stemmed from the fact that I was wearing my brown pants, which require a ridiculous pair of 3 inch heels because (a) I had the pants under-hemmed and require serious extra height to prevent them from dragging, and (b) the high and spiky abominations happen to be my only pair of brown shoes.

As my eye wandered around the bar, I espied a tall, attractive black man packed a few sardines away from me -- but no, I couldn't be this lucky, nor could IJL be this benevolent. Even if I disregard the IJL curse, I couldn't really convince myself that this guy was D, mostly because he was around 6'4". While men might add an inch of two to their physical profile, it seems unlikely that a guy would reduce his height by 8 inches. Unless perhaps he had a heart-rending experience where he'd been adored only for his height, and not for his soul?

OK, since that scenario requires an imagination stretch similar to that achieved by Ocean Eleven's Yen, I assumed it wasn't D. But I could still approach him and ask, just to be sure...oh! I just caught his eye! I remember reading about this in Vogue...but what am I supposed to do again? Maintain eye contact for some non-stalker-like period of time, then look away shyly? Should I toss a smile in there somewhere? Or is he only catching my eye because I'm in the way of him and the door, through which his girlfriend will be walking at any second? Give me a break -- I'm not keen on this whole bar pickup thing; that's why I'm doing IJL.

We caught each other's eye a few more times over the next ten minutes or so, and I convinced myself that I was going to approach him, because if nothing else, it would add much needed meat to my getting-stood-up blog entry. On top of which, thanks to the aforementioned perfect storm raging outside, I still couldn't consider leaving the bar. As I was meticulously plotting a route to slink closer, the two women sitting in the stools right near where he was standing got up to leave. My screaming feet took control and pedaled me over to one of the stools. As I was about to sit I remembered my other motivation, and I turned to him. "Were you going to sit?" I queried, gesturing at the other stool.

"No no," he said, "you go ahead." I sighed heavily at his cluelessness. "Well there's a second seat if you want it." He shook his head, saying "I've been sitting all day, so it's ok..." Then he stopped and I saw a flash of understanding in his eyes. "Oh, right, maybe I will." So that awkward maneuver on my part led to us chatting for about an hour, and he bought us both another drink. He was cute and nice, seemed smart, works for the government. I mentioned poker, and he didn't look alarmed; he even raved about how great Vegas is! Around 9:00, he tried to buy me another drink, while expressing sorrow that he couldn't join me. Apparently I'd already made him late to meet his sister, who was picking him up to head out to the eastern shore for a wedding. I declined the extra drink (i've had enough drinks by myself tonight, thanks), and said it was nice to meet him. He grabbed a cocktail napkin and wrote his name and number on it; I reciprocated with my card, and he said he'd be in touch after he got back from his trip. Oh, and he tipped $10 on the $12 bill -- a significant improvement over my first IJL date, who stiffed the waiter with my own cash! Anyway, who knows if this guy will call, but at least it was a great ending to another IJL failure.

When I got home, I was going to transfer the phone number to something more hardy than a cocktail napkin, to prevent a situation reminiscent of Serendipity (a movie that was the consequence of one of John Cusack's few serious errors in judgment). I pulled the napkin out of my purse and opened it, looking at it with puzzlement and then a growing alarm. Completely blank. Had he written on it in invisible ink, to test whether or not I am worthy of dating someone who works for Homeland Security? Or perhaps I imagined the entire interaction. Did I spend the evening laughing and chatting up empty space, à la Lost's Hurley?

As it turns out, I'm not raving mad, I just have a penchant for stuffing multiple cocktail napkins into my purse (not surprising if you've ever looked inside my purse). So after several minutes of questioning my sanity as well as my state of intoxication, I realized that I had a second napkin on which he had written his email address and number in ordinary, visible blue ink.

Or did I...? (to be continued)