The Devil's World

I meet a guy from okcupid.

     “Sooo…”

     Why does he keep saying THAT WORD? Not “so” with just one “o,” but with three “os” and the three little dots following it, say something say something say something say something.

     “So, you went to Ohio State? How did that go for you?”

     Work with me dude, you’re really cute, WAIT your teeth, what’s up with you’re teeth, did you not have braces, you so can tell I’m staring at you’re teeth, one tooth is humping the other one, humping teeth, it’s no lie, I’m not going to make out with you, you think that’s what I’m thinking because my eyes are on your teeth though I’m sure you’re a good kisser, but that’s not where I think this is heading, this is heading up s**t’s creek, that’s where we’re at, s**t’s creek.

     How did I find myself at some U Street Corridor, hipster-esque coffee shop on a Saturday afternoon in mid-April examining this guy’s teeth? Flash back to early February where I’m sitting on my friend’s, Papa Dames, bed with our friend Rachel in this concrete cube known as a dorm room.

 “Bringing Down the House” with Steve Martin is playing on the television, but the hollow holes of our pupils lay on the Apples and Dell resting in our laps.  Rachel says:

     “Have you seen this?”

     My attention diverts to the aluminum Apple placed in front of me as some knee-slapper youtube gunk is played. It receives a two-chuckle feedback and I turn to Papa Dames, who is confirming his spring break plans to visit his boyfriend, Brandon, in Iowa- via facebook chat. Floating in a realm of partial jealously and partial curiosity, I turn to Rachel and say:

     “Dude, how the hell do we meet boys at this school? I’m sick of everyone being either gay or the proud owner of a vagina.”

     “Well, have you tried the internet?” she laughs back in a nonchalant sort-of fashion.

     “No, that s**t costs, I’m a college student and not throwing bank on some forty-year old virgin creepers to jack-off to some photobooth picture of me.”

     “okcupid doesn’t cost.” she answered in a calm, but proud tone.

     “Really, that’s so sketch.”

     “Yeah, but I’ve met guys on there-actually- I’m sort of seeing someone from there right now.”

     “…And you trust these people?”

     “Yeah, there’s a lot fucked up people, but there’s some good ones.”

     “Do you know of this sketchfest?” I turn to Papa Dames who is still in engrossed in something that I know better than to inquire about regarding Brandon.

     “Yeah, here.” He pulls up some site featuring a dimmed-up picture of him and extensive essays, consisting of details of more than anyone would like to know about his insecurities. Papa Dames is the type of person who loves talking about these things.

     “So many AU kids do this.” He says as I scroll down the page.

      “You’ll be surprised.” he responded, rather condescendingly.

Surprised. I was surprised that I actually had friends who did this. I knew Papa Dames met Brandon on the Internet, but the fact that so many others engaged in this was bizarre. A near and dear friend from back home and I maintain this running joke that she’s going to create “Shannon’s Tzedakah Box”, in which she will stand outside the local Kroger in our “heart of Georgia” hometown with a cowbell and have the suburban soccer mom’s donate money to it. This “Salvation Army mockery” would go toward the conception of a Jdate account for my twenty-first birthday.  “A nice Jewish Boy for Shannon’s twenty-first” she said as we glanced through the sweaty future bank managers and doctors that could be my potential fellow-baby procreators. It’s a win-win situation; my parent’s would be content that my sons would be circumcised, I would get a good “lay” for my twenty-first, and the soccer moms could have something to mindlessly brag about at church the following Sunday.

     Despite all this, I was hooked.

     Why does this stupid place have to fill the coffee to the brim of the mug, this will spill spill spill all over this white blouse and down the cleavage, and by god I’m an expert at having random particles of food end up down there. Awkward awkward, why won’t he ask me anything, he thinks I’m weird and stupid, he likes intelligent girls, I’m not intelligent, I’m stupid, why did I tell him about the brownie incident of last night, he so thinks I’m some immature pot-head, but I’m not, it was just a mere coincidence that I lost my brownie-virginity the night before we met. He thinks I’m an excuse-maker and that I make up s**t to explain my actions, my nose is huge, my hair is frizzy, a good fifteen pounds needs to be decreased from my stomach, was the pot-brownie thing a bit too much, he was in AEPi, of course it would’ve been okay to say, but is AEPi too nerdy for that? Oh s**t.

     Flash back to the end of March. There has been Abe; a self-proclaimed “comedian,” Josh; a reserved, red glasses- sporting, plaid shirt wearing GW psychology senior, and Frank; an inhabitant of Friendship Heights who was part bartender, part actor.  None of whom I actually met in person. 

     Then, there was David.

     David messaged me first. He used the word “awesomesauce” to describe the sarcastic profile that I composed during a 3 am insomnia spout I had months before. He provided examples to verify that he had read the profile in its entirety (it was long, very long), described himself as not a hipster, but a “nerd who likes to wear plaid,” and offered to take me to a baseball game (I mentioned how I had never been to a baseball game). From his profile, I gathered his was a twenty-three old government worker, originally from Prince George County, an Ohio State graduate with a degree in economics, and that he talked incessantly. He appeared as an extroverted, outdoorsy individual as his pictures depicted him rock-climbing and partying with friends. Overall, he had a nice, curly Jew-fro, a none-cheesy sense of humor, intelligence, and emotional as well as mental stability. So, from there was the birth of our week and a half correspondence (as he described as “awkward cawfee tawk”) of Georgetown  v. Sticky Fingers Cupcakes, roller derby, the copious amounts of work he had to complete in the event of a government shut-down.

    Thank you stupid GRE class, I’m twenty minutes late, run, don’t run, run, don’t run, you’ll make your face red if you run, but your running late…crossing Adam’s Mill road, oh s**t, where’s Tryst, okay walk, walk, s**t, what if he has a crazy twitch or is a “throat clearer,” God, I can’t stand throat clearers, but what if he’s a “nose sniffler,” now those are the worse, and is “that-guy-who-refuses-to-blow-his-nose-even-though-he-has- a-glob-snot-up-there-that-could-fill-the-Grand-Canyon.” He’s so gonna be THAT guy, of course he is, my dumb-f*****g luck in this department has it in for me. Oh s**t, that’s gotta be him, he has a book out, those jeans…those jeans or sort of skinny, but not quite, he’s pulling it off, that’s’ good, but that shirt, does that shirt really go under that plaid shirt well, oh god, he’s looking up, looking up, he see’s me…

     I’m skyping Maxine, best friend from high school, Emory undergrad play writing major, currently studying in Paris.

     “You really need to see this guy, he’s so you.” She says, as I discuss the last conversation I had with him regarding him consuming shots this Friday night, at midnight, to celebrate his temporary unemployment.

     As she rambles on how this guy is such a complimentary match for my personality, I search for him on the infamous facebook. Sure enough, he was the first to come up.

     “Look at this, he looks f*****g constipated” I say, as I copy and past the link to his profile picture and send it to her via Skype chat.

     A majority of his page his blocked, but I can see that his music tastes include the Arctic Monkeys, the Fratellis, and the Beatles. This was respectable in my book.

    “Holy s**t, his entire family is joking about stuffing potato latkes in a turkey, so they can be together for Thanksgiving and Chanukah.” Maxine squeals.

     We found the entire extended family on Facebook; most lacking knowledge of the privacy settings Facebook offered. They were hilarious, laid-back, and unlike my family, actually communicated and celebrated holidays with one another. Interestingly enough, we learned his dad graduated high school in the lowly Brooklyn neighborhood where my maternal grandparent’s resided that last thirty-years of their lives. I spent my elementary school summers trekking around that neighborhood in the stifling heat.  This was a pretty bizarre coincidence, as far as I was concerned.

     “Dude, you’re making babies with this guy,” blurted Maxine.

    “Oh you bet,” I responded excitedly.

  

     “Heeeyyy, how are you???” chimes a stereotypical-awkward, scrawny-Jewish, boy’s voice.

     AWKWARD HALF HUG TIME. Cousin Gary did that same thing when we met for pizza last August, awkward conversation was made, but we’re pretty damn tight after I spontaneously arrived at his apartment at 1:30 am with chocolate pancakes. Why do guys do that half-hug thing Oh s**t…

     “Tryst is packed, so how about hitting up some place on U street?”

     “Sound’s cool.”  I said trying to sound relaxed and mask my intense nervousness.

     Okay, we’re strolling down the street, but what now? What do we talk about?

     Walking, walking, walking, s**t Adam’s Morgan, why are there so many damn cracks in the road, this is not helping this situation, I fall a lot, I’m going to fall now, this is weird, why isn’t he talking, am I suppose to be talking, do I look at him, why can’t I look at him, am I suppose to look at him, is that weird, he’s going to know I’m checking him out though, but we’re here to check each other out, is he checking me out, s**t s**t s**t, oh crap, I just walked into those people’s picture, what type of tourist takes pictures in Adams Morgan, that paperback book in his  backpocket looks really hot, is it weird that I find that hot, tourists take their damn pictures by the U.S. phallic symbol, not Adams Morgan

 “Sorry, I’m kind of spacey- I sort-of had this incident last night involving brownies that may or may not of been laced. I was suppose to be at this poetry-reading thing at Poets and Busboys”

“You mean BUSBOYS AND POETS? “ he says sternly.

    Why can’t you laugh this off? Please tell me you are not like my AP US teacher from high school who only finds humor through political cartoons?

 “Uh-yeah, don’t listen to me- my friend, actually it was Papa Dames, had these brownies and we ended up eating them in the metro and we ended up crashing these people’s double date, but they sort of invited us, but it wasn’t that bad, and we were sitting there eating chips and hamburgers, and these people seemed really boring-like the type who have Friday Night dates and go home and pay bridge.”

“Fair enough.” He responded in the same tone as before.

     FAIR ENOUGH- he said that fast, really fast, is he fast talker, why isn’t he laughing, I just made an utter complete fool of myself, why isn’t he laughing this off, s**t oh s**t oh s**t oh s**t…I’m fucked, it’s not even been five minutes and I’m so screwed.

“I was kind-of in this little frat back in college and we had this party where someone gave out brownies and this one guy ate like five of them.”

      He was in AEPi, he’s not saying it, but he so was, Maxine and I figured this s**t out, he thinks I’m weird I keep staring at these buildings-excuse time.

“I never actually come over here in the daytime, it looks different.” I say apologetically, but awkwardly.

“Yeah, I used to not either, but my friends and I have began having brunch here.”

     He’s a “bruncher.”  What the hell is up with this awkward silence, its like this wall of petroleum jelly that we’re trying to fight through, but can’ t get to one another, f*****g internet, I thought this guy wouldn’t shut up, why isn’t he talking, why haven’t we laughed, why isn’t this ice breaking.

“Uh, we’re at Florida, where’s U street?” he asks, as though it’s super critical that we know the answer, but probably just his attempt in trying to fill in the awkwardness.

“Did we pass it?”

“Here, I’ll find a place with Yelp”

     Out comes the iphone, of course the iphone, is he trying to impress me with his phone, should I be impressed, f*****g petroleum jelly wall…

“Here’s a place,” he says after we awkwardly strolled a few blocks.

We enter the coffee shop. He opens the door as I just about walk past it.

     This place has no menu, why does it have no menu, should I ask to see if there’s a menu? No I will stand here awkwardly, oh-so awkwardly, just make sure that one’s not in front of my nose and I don’t look stupid, stare at wall, stare at wall, stare at cheesy cake signs on wall….

     “ Those are interesting signs.”

    Why the hell did I say that, I look dumb, stupid, no I don’t. Worse. He thinks my endocannabinoids are filled with some fresh mary jane before coming here and I now he is so convinced I’m just some mindlessly, chattering, waiting to get her “MRS” degree girl. Please laugh at my joke boy, even if you think it’s not so funny. Laugh, smile, SHOW LIFE.

     “Uh, I think this is place is related to that cake place across the street. “ He answers uncomfortably, his hands firmly in his pockets.

     No f*****g menu, I’ll ask 1-2-3 NOW.

     “So, do you see a menu around?”

     “Oh, uh, uhmmmm… nyoooh”

      “Here’s one,” says a polite, yet frustrated, woman with the gigantic stroller and annoying, small, child in front of us.

     “Oh thanks,” I smiled back.

      Salads. Why did I just turn to the salads on this smallish-menu, I don’t want a salad, is this place a coffee shop or some posh, wrap, salad, sandwich place infested with U Street yogis just trying to “get by” but can afford to spend $150 a month on yoga. Where’s the damn coffee on here, I’m too nervous to read this stupid thing, small coffee, keeps it safe. He asks me if I want a cupcake, so nervous, he’s nervous, I’m nervous, we’re repelling off of each other. No I don’t want a cupcake, why are you offering me a cupcake that wasn’t awkward, not at all…

     We order. David pulls out his credit card to pay. I know the “right thing” to do is to offer to pay for myself, but this is awkward enough, so I just let it fly. I walk down to the wooden counter to retrieve my beverage. He follows me. A white mug of coffee is presented to me.

     They filled this damn thing up to the brim, s**t I have to drink it black, why now, why here, is this f*****g necessary? Uncomfortable. Why’s he so uncomfortable that I’m not putting anything in this coffee, the last thing we need is some coffee tsunami, well maybe we could laugh about it. Fat chance.

     We proceed to find a place to sit.

     Why can’t we find a damn place to sit, he thinks I’m dumb because I can’t find a place to sit and I just walked into that corner, and now this coffee is spilled all over my hand, and he’s pretending not to notice, but he so is noticing, and I’m such a f*****g klutz. Klutzy McKlutzer, my new name, maybe I should change my okcupid account username to that? Why haven’t we laughed yet, laugh a*****e laugh. You seemed so damn funny on that damn profile, f*****g Internet, five bucks you were inebriated when you made that thing…

     We sit. Now what do we talk about? Good question.

      “So, well it’s nice congress didn’t leave you unemployed.” I say attempting to make conversation.

     “Blah blah blah blah blah congresss blah blah blah economics blah blah blah Obama”

     HOLY FUCKARONI S**T HE’S FINALLY TALKING  AND ALL IT IS ABOUT IS THE F*****G CONGRESS AND F*****G GOVERNMENT AND F*****G OBAMA. Papa Dames, you are a poli sci major, lets pull some Freaky Friday moment right now, at this super awkward moment so I can understand what the hell this guy is saying…

     Later on in the conversation...

     “Blah blah blah baseball. I went to such and such stadium and it was so awesome.”

     “Uh, Citifield looks pretty neat from out the outside, I mean after they tore down Shae…”

    “I was talking about the Yankees, that’s the Mets stadium.” 

     Oh s**t, you’re talking about the government-fifteen minutes, now your talking about baseball, why are you talking about things I don’t know, s**t, I thought Citifield belonged to the Yankees, s**t it belongs to the Mets, apparently that’s a misdemeanor in your book because you’re still not laughing…

     And the plot thickens…

     “So, you’re the girl from New York….right?”

     “Uh, no, I’m from Georgia…”

     This is turning into a Kit-Kat or-is it Twix-I think Twix commercial, where they guy stuffs his face with a Twix, to save his a*s to think up something witty, but we’re both doing that with coffee-well latte for him I asked you about Ohio State, we’re still not laughing and its been 30 f*****g minutes since we met, okay we’re talking about Jews and Catholics, okay ask me something about being a Jew in a Catholic school, but this any who, this is total s**t, oh back to the “so” thing again, stop saying damn “sooo ”and ask me something about myself…

     “I don’t remember anything from those 108 random facts off you’re profile…”

     YOU DON’T REMEMEBER ANYTHING FROM THAT GODDAM PROFILE, ISN’T THAT WHY YOU STARTED TALKING TO ME IN THE FIRST PLACE.  Isn’t that why we’re all here anyway, because you “liked” that stupid bull shited, half-assed, profile, you’re wasting my time, and this coffee sucks balls, but you’re balls probably suck worse which is why you’re on that site in the first place. Okay, which philosopher said it… was it maybe Plato, where there was two worlds and one was the physical world and one was the idealistic world filled with non-tangible s**t, well even if I don’t remember that correctly, who ever said that was one hell of a psychic, seeing as that is exactly the stunt the wonderful world wide web has seem to have pulled with its magic.

      And even though “polite girls rarely make history” I politely smiled back and reassured him that it was okay. The date continued on in this manner until he checked the time on his iphone and said in some fake-sincere voice:

“I think it’s about that time, I have to go get ready for a party I’m throwing for my friend at my place. S**t’s going down.”

      5:30 on a Saturday afternoon- That’s when you have to start planning for some stupid party where “s**t will go down,” what time is this party, does this party really exist, I’m sure you’re QUITE the party animal…

     Now we’re standing in front of the U street metro.

     How the hell do we say goodbye, hug? no kiss, please no kiss…

     “Nice meeting you” he says in such an oh-so civil manner that he probably learned at some cotillion that his mom forced him to.

     “Yeahhhh…nice to meet you too” which was my cue to dash down the escalator the safety of the train.

 

FOLLOWING MONDAY MORNING OKCUPID MESSAGE:

(David to Shannon)

“Soooo, I meant to send this yesterday and that just didn't happen because of course yesterday turned out to be just as busy as ever. The thing is, that's kind of the problem for me: my life is just too damn busy to get involved in anything right now. I'm sorry. You're a really sweet girl and you're very pretty, I just have to do what's right for me. Best of luck to you in all your endeavors :)