Nobodies Page 16

  Let’s say you message BlahBlah, asking your template Europe question, and she responds, “Amsterdam.” Feel free to tell her about a trip to Amsterdam you may have taken. You could mention the Anne Frank house, the Van Gogh Museum, and your weed-smoking adventures in the Red Light District.

  BlahBlah might ask if you hooked up with any prostitutes while you were there. Categorically deny, even if you have to lie. Chances are, she wouldn’t approve. But keep it casual. Say something like, “No lol Of course not,” so you don’t look suspicious. (You can always add a well-considered follow-up, expressing your thoughts on prostitution, if you feel so inclined.)

  Once you’ve exchanged a couple of messages, feel free to ask her out. (For coffee or drinks, not a gang bang. Unless under I’m looking for she explicitly wrote, “a gang bang.” In which case, ask away.)

  “You seem pretty cool. Would you like to hang out sometime?” usually works for me. If she says yes, suggest a coffee date. Always pick the same time and place, to remove unwanted variables. The afternoon, if you’re in your 20s; the evening, if you’re not. A coffee shop close to home and, if possible, a park.That way, you can take a stroll if it’s a nice day, and if things go really well, you’re just a few minutes away from your bedroom!

  (Speaking of which, check out her personality questions to see where she stands on issues like sex on a first date, accidental pregnancies/abortions, STIs, and anything else that might be a deal-breaker. If, for example, you’re a kinky dink and she’s a clean-cut Carol, it’s better to know sooner rather than later . . .)

  But keep in mind: 99 percent of the time, things will not work out. If you send 100 messages, maybe 20 people will respond—if you’re lucky. Unless you’re rich or bizarrely hand-some, you’re more likely to receive 15 (or even 10) responses. Of those 15, maybe half will reply more than once, and only half of them will agree to meet you in person. Of the three remaining, two will actually show up, and only one will want to see you more than once. (Incidentally, “more than once” does not imply anything more than twice.)

  Sounds bleak, right? But what’s the alternative? Another night at the bar? Another house party? Do the numbers on a house party. How many people can fit in a house? 30? Maybe 40? Of those 40, maybe 10 will be attractive. And just because they’re attractive doesn’t mean they’re single. And just because they’re single doesn’t mean they’re looking. And just because they’re looking doesn’t mean they’re looking for you.

  Sometimes you’ll wish people didn’t reply to your messages. A few months ago, for instance, I found myself in an unprovoked argument with someone who, for propriety’s sake, shall remain nameless. “Hey M.,” I wrote, “you seem to be both intelligent and down-to-earth, and, in my experience, that’s a pretty rare combination. If you could live anywhere in Europe where would it be?” “I’ll try to be witty,” she replied. “Most people aren’t intelligent nor down-to-earth. If they’re one, they’re the other. And since your name states you’re one, you probably aren’t the other.” (FYI: my username includes the word “witty.”) Then she added, in a separate message, “Lots of love! M.” Naturally, I was pissed, so I wrote back: “I’ll try to be more witty, which shouldn’t be very hard in this case. First, you misused the word ‘nor.’ Second, read a psychology textbook. Third, my username is ironic. Fourth, your third and fourth sentences contradict each other. (If you’re going to criticize people, you should probably make sure that your criticism makes sense.) Fifth, based on how quickly you reached your judgment and how you went out of your way to share it with me, you clearly are neither intelligent NOR down-to-earth, and I’m sorry I misjudged you.” Then I waited a few minutes and added, “Lots of love! Witty [the rest of my username]” Granted, I was probably a bit harsh, but so was she. And I’m entitled to defend myself.

  Which is a long way of saying, not all messages will be pleasant. Some will be nasty; some will be downright silly. One girl (let’s call her Shouty) ended every sentence, no matter how mundane, with an exclamation mark: “Hey! My weekend was okay! I went grocery shopping and cleaned my apartment! How was yours?!?!” Another girl, who I’ve nicknamed Winky, used emoticons instead of punctuation: “hi there ;) you seem interesting :p send a dick pic :)” And Abbv, as I’ve come to call her, seemed allergic to actual words: “lol idk. meh. w/e . . . brb . . . sry i g2g. ttyl . . . ps u dtf tmrw?” Part of me wanted to meet these people just to see what they were like in person—to see if they spoke in abbreviations or smiled in symbols. But these are minor offences compared to the full-frontal assaults of people like M.

  I have a not-too-original theory that the internet is just an enabling mechanism for assholeish behavior. If I met M. at a party, for instance, and gave her the same “intelligent and down-to-earth” compliment, she would never say what she said. Not to my face, at least. The online barrier of anonymity not only protects her but dehumanizes me, allowing her to get away with insults that, in any other context, would be completely unacceptable. And the sad thing is, she’s probably a decent person. In “real life,” she’s probably polite and thoughtful and empathetic, but online she’s a dick. Why? Because there are no apparent consequences for her actions. She can say whatever she wants—no matter how moronic or offensive—without fear of retribution, because, in a sense, I’m not a real person; I’m just a collection of data and megapixels. The same can obviously be said about guys who think it’s okay to greet women online by listing all the ways they’d like to fuck them. In their day-to-day lives, such reptilian tools are probably afraid to make eye contact with women, but the online forum enables them to get away with obscene levels of dickishness. The point, however, is universal. Etiquette is etiquette, regardless of gender, and a dick with a vagina is no better than a dick with a dick.

  Even I’m guilty of this kind of duplicity. My outer self, my public persona, is much more patient, civil, and polite than the person who tumbles around in my head, breaking things. Out of pragmatism I try to be my “best self” with others and restrict my “real self” to late night appearances, when everyone else has gone to bed.

  But that’s the way we’ve always been. Jekylls hide their Hydes; Hydes hide their Jekylls. Hitler was right: If you’re pretty on the outside, you’re probably ugly on the inside. (Jk. Hitler didn’t say that. It was Stalin.) The reverse is true, as well: if you’re ugly on the outside, you’re probably pretty on the inside. Too bad we can only see what we prioritize. The skin-deep beauty. The social shell.

  Step Ten: Brainstorm conversation topics.

  If you have a bad memory, write them on the back of a business card, and stick it in your wallet. You can always refer to it when you go to the bathroom. But NEVER pull it out in front of BlahBlah.You. Will. Look. Insane.

  Cater the topics to your date’s interests, but focus on areas of common ground. If she likes Woody Allen films, and you like Woody Allen films, write down “Woody Allen films.” (But don’t assume that she still likes them. Or that you both like the same ones.Opinions change, and people don’t always update their profiles . . .)

  Once you get to know her, feel free to explore more inter-esting topics. I sometimes share my People I Don’t Necessarily Want Dead But Wouldn’t Feel Bad If They Died list. (Which includes several celebrities and politicians, as well as a few classmates from high school.) Tailor your list to your audience, and be sure to mention the least controversial choices (like Justin Bieber) up front.

  Last year, this experiment back-fired big time, when I included the mayor on my list. My date didn’t seem to mind at the time, but after we parted ways I got a call from the cops, asking if I was politically active, if I harbored any ill-will towards my current municipal representatives, and if I had ever been involved in a terrorist organization. I replied, “No,” “No,” and “Define ‘terrorist.’” Things went downhill from there . . . (It wasn’t all bad though. A few months later, I turned our date into a short film!)

  Step
Eleven (A): Manage your nervous breakdown.

  Let’s say BlahBlah doesn’t show up.

  Whatever you do, don’t send a half-dozen angry messages. I know you may want to, but don’t. That shit’s written in ink, and it’s easy to share with the world. Whatever rage you feel—justly or unjustly—take it out on a pillow or a trash can.

  Step Eleven (B): Manage your nerves.

  Let’s say BlahBlah does show up.

  Whatever you do, don’t get too excited. Just be yourself, and take things sentence-by-sentence. If you pass a weird sign, for instance, don’t be afraid to stop and speculate about its meaning.

  When I went out with the girl who foiled my scheme to assassinate the mayor, we passed a theatre showing a student production called Nobodies: A Play About Everyday Heroes. “Nobodies,” she mumbled, looking up at the sign. “Sounds like No Buddies, if you say it quickly.” “Or No Bodies,” I replied, “if you say it slowly.”“Or Nobo Dies, if you say it weirdly.”Who was Nobo, we wondered, and why did he die? Did he have no buddies? No body? We knew what it meant to have no buddies, but what would it mean to have no body? Did a brain in a jar count as a body? Probably not. What if you added arms and legs to the jar and drew a smiley face? At what point, in other words, did body parts end and bodies begin? These are the kinds of things you discuss on a first date. They mean nothing and lead nowhere, but they sure are fun.

  Don’t assume she’s into you, but don’t assume she’s not. Just because she seems uncomfortable doesn’t mean she’s not having fun. But just because she’s having fun doesn’t mean she likes you. (And just because you’re having fun doesn’t mean she’s having fun.)

  Conversation-wise, you’ll never know where the landmines are until you step on one. At that point just collect your limbs and get the hell out of there.

  Step Twelve: Avoid stepping on the same landmine twice.

  If, for instance, you find yourself in an argument with BlahBlah about Woody Allen’s alleged pedophilia, end it ASAP. You may feel the urge to raise your voice and call her names, especially since her profile—which includes Annie Hall and Vicky Christina Barcelona (among others) in her Favourite Movies section—has led you to believe that she’s a fan of Allen’s work/character. You’ll want to tear your teeth out, because she’s a hypocrite, and you’re a well-intentioned, compassionate human being who’s just trying to make small talk and find common interests and who’s now defending an alleged child molester for no particular reason. You’ll repeat your point again and again, as if hearing it for a fourth time will finally convince her, and when she starts to challenge you, finding the holes in your argument (not to mention your Ghandi-like persona), you’ll be too proud to admit defeat, to acknowledge your own hypocrisy, and you’ll volunteer to end the date early.

  If you’re lucky, you’ll find common ground, agree to disagree, and change the subject in time to salvage your relationship. Chances are, you won’t. But miracles happen.

  Step Thirteen: Follow up.

  After you say adios, wait a few days to text her. (Don’t call. Calling is so 20th Century.) If she doesn’t reply within 24 hours, remain calm. It might be nothing. Send a follow-up text, just to confirm. If she doesn’t respond to Text Number Two, take the hint: she ain’t that into you. Let it/her go, and move on to someone who is.

  If she does respond, ask her out again. (Regardless of how the first date went.)

  Of course, there’s no guarantee that the second date will be better. Let’s say you go see the new Woody Allen film, Magic in the Moonlight. As you leave the theatre, and she tells you how much she liked it (despite the creepy Whatever Works/Manhattan-esque relationship between Colin Firth and Emma Stone) you’ll smile and nod and suppress the urge to share your rant, which is now coiled in your brain like a sneeze, ready to spray at the slightest provocation. You’ll try to steer the conversation away from M in the M (and away from Woody Allen in general), but before you can she suggests that M in the M may not have been as good as Vicky Christina Barcelona but was still better than Manhattan, not to mention Midnight in Paris and Annie Hall. And once you recover from your minor stroke, you sort out the questions snapping your neurons. How could she prefer VCB to Manhattan?Or M in the M to Manhattan? Or M in the M to Midnight in P? Or M in the M to Annie H? Or VCB to Midnight in P? Or VCB to Annie H?

  You wonder (very sincerely) if you can respect someone who prefers the melodrama of VCB or the fifth-rate farce of M in the M to the infinite artistry of Manhattan. How could you, an aspiring filmmaker, date someone with such terrible taste? Imagine what she’ll say when she sees one of your films. She’ll think you’re a hack, a poser, a fraud, and you’ll think she’s an ignorant, soulless moron, who wouldn’t recognize good art if it fell on her head. (Which you secretly hope might happen, preferably in the form of a large marble sculpture.)

  You try to imagine a future with BlahBlah.You picture arguments in the street, in the kitchen, in the bedroom. You chart the slow creep of resentment: the sighs, the rolling eyes, the silent treatments and loud debates. You watch minor become major, as pet-peeves morph into deal-breakers.

  You try again to change the subject, but she asks for your thoughts on M in the M, and (for reasons that you are unable to explain to your therapist) you tell the truth. You ridicule the childish plot, the sentimental lighting, and the complete lack of chemistry between Colin Firth and Emma Stone. BlahBlah goes predictably, understandably quiet. But you don’t stop there. (Why would you? You’ve already shot yourself in the foot; you might as well shoot the other foot too.) You defend your beloved Manhattan, expounding on its richness, celebrating its wise humor/humorous wisdom, but before you have a chance to recite your favourite lines, she waves a dismissive hand and says, “Ugh. It’s sooooo overrated.”

  She goes on to list the virtues of VCB, citing the golden cinematography, the lush landscapes, and the Oscar-winning performance by Penelope Cruz—all of which is fine ’n dandy (to use one of BlahBlah’s favourite expressions) but doesn’t add up to a great film. Or even a decent film. Sure, it’s okay by Hollywood standards, but the plot is absurd, the dialogue is cheesy, and the voiceover narration is nauseating. Not only is VCB not comparable to Manhattan (which, for the record, is clearly and obviously Allen’s best film—period, end of story), but VCB isn’t even in the Allen Top Ten. (Or, for that matter, the Top Twenty.)

  Adding insult to injury, she lists a half-dozen Allen films that she prefers to Manhattan. You don’t have enough patience to refute the absurd choices (like Match Point, You Will Meet a Tall Dark Stranger, and To Rome with Love) so you confine your counter-arguments to films that actually have merit: Annie H and Midnight in P. (Two classics, for sure, but not quite Manhattan.) She gives the usual arguments in favour of Annie H: it won more Oscars, invented a fashion style, etc. etc.

  But Annie H is the easy choice. Like picking Beethoven’s 5th or 9th Symphonies over the 7th. The 5th is the most accessible, the 9th is the most ambitious, but the 7th is the most subtle, the most mature, the most flawless. It doesn’t try too hard, it isn’t too flashy, and, unlike the 9th, it doesn’t overstay its welcome. Same goes for Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here compared to Dark Side of the Moon and The Wall. Dark Side is the album everyone loves first, followed by The Wall, which, like Beethoven’s 9th, is a bit patchy in spots, not to mention longwinded, but Wish You Were Here is the underappreciated middle child. The perfect blend of ambition and refinement, subtlety and sublimity.

  You don’t explain any of this to her, because you don’t want to sound like more of a douche-nerd than you already do, but you think it, again and again, a half-hour later, on the subway ride home. Alone.

  This time, you part ways abruptly, on not-so-good terms.You don’t even get a hug. (In a sense, hugs are worse than slaps. They offer a sample of bodily contact, but not too much, and not for too long. Just enough for you to know what you’re missing.)

  When yo
u get home, you go through the usual motions: resenting her, wanting her, resenting while wanting, wanting while resenting. You wonder why you even like her. She’s attractive, yes, but so are a lot of people.

  You wonder if these minor issues—Manhattan, pedophilia, etc.—are really so important. Maybe they’re just defense mechanisms preventing you from becoming attached. Maybe you’re just afraid of pain and loss, like everyone else. Isn’t that why things didn’t work out with Janet or Mary or Emma or Claire? (Not to mention Julia, Monica, and Stacy?) Isn’t that why you fucked things up with BlahBlah too? Because deep down you’re determined to die alone, like your mother always said?

  Suddenly, you realize you’ve smoked too much weed. You put your bong back on the table, push yourself off the couch and grab a glass of water from the kitchen. You try to forget about your exes and your mother, and you focus on BlahBlah instead.

  You assume she won’t want to see you again, which is just fine by you. She’s arrogant, and opinionated, and abrasive, and judgmental. Who the hell would want to be with someone like that? (Yes, I’m aware of the irony.)

  So why, you ask yourself, is she getting under your skin? Why are you so desperate to see her again, if you can’t stand the sight of her? To maintain your OKC track record? To appease your ego? To reject her before she can reject you? To get a second second chance? To prove to her you’re not a douche? To prove to yourself you’re not a douche?

  All of the above, plus the below:

  You have nothing (and no one) better to do.

  Which isn’t as callous as it sounds. Using people—sexually, emotionally, financially—is standard operating procedure these days, at least in the early stages. As long as the use is consensual/mutual. As long as you’re both using/being used.

  You pick up your phone to text her an apology—maybe even a request for Date Number Three—but before you can type “Hey,” you realize how desperate/weak you’ll look, so you put the phone down and pick up your bong.