Jason and I met on the rugby field freshman year when the girls’ team scrimmaged the guys’. Something of a closeted brainiac, you’d never guess he has a biomedical engineering PhD under his belt. Outwardly he projects a jockish, fratty bro who is always, always happy. It took several years for me to warm up to him (because of the whole jockish-fratty-bro persona), and for my boyfriends—first Scott, then Dave—to warm up to him, too (same reason). But ultimately, Jason’s so fun, and over-the-top considerate, that everyone winds up wanting to be around him. And when it comes to dating advice, he’s probably my most valuable confidante, given that he thinks like a typical dude.
“On second thought, you should try to tone it down. Talk about getting-to-know-you things.” Jason reaches for a napkin. “Don’t want a repeat of the cancer doctor. Wanna order another dozen?”
Sunday afternoon a week later, Brendan and I are meeting outside the 86th Street subway stop, close to my apartment. (A true gentleman, Brendan had informed me over email, calls on the lady and doth not make the lady travel to him.) I’m reading my cell phone, trying not to appear eager or anxious or . . . solitary? When did I become so insecure about totally normal occurrences like waiting for someone on the sidewalk?
He taps me on the shoulder, and I turn and look up. He’s practically a giant. “Hey!”
I crane my neck to make eye contact.
We order coffee to go, and we stroll over to, around, and through the Great Lawn in Central Park. We talk about everything and yet nothing at the same time. He describes growing up in Baltimore, and I interrupt with: “All in the game, yo. All in the game.”
Brendan hesitates.
“It’s a not-super-witty Wire reference.” I clarify quickly, “Omar. You know.”
“You come at the king, you best not miss,” Brendan says without missing a beat.
“Omar don’t scare,” I respond with bravado. “Sorry, that was bad. I’m out of Omar lines!”
He laughs, and it’s a real laugh, not just a polite chuckle. He makes dumb blonde jokes at my expense. We talk about our dream cities (his: Galway, Ireland; mine: Vicenza, Italy), joke about our roommates’ dating dramas, and play a lot of “would you rather.”
“Would you rather lose your sense of taste or your sense of touch?” he asks.
“Ooh, that’s really hard. I guess touch? I tend to live through my stomach, so giving up the pleasures I derive from food would be sad. Would you rather be a cat or a dragonfly?”
“Dragonfly. That’s easy. Would you rather have four legs or four arms?”
“Can I have both?”
We learn remarkably little about each other on the second date, but it’s fun and our walk lasts nearly four hours. The wheels in his head spin really quickly, and he’s definitely cute enough. We keep up with each other pace-wise conversationally, and when he makes eye contact, it seems intent and a bit sparkly . . . so there’s that. I think we have chemistry, because otherwise how could we have talked for four hours? For the first time since Dave, I feel a glimmer of romantic possibility.
I’m on the couch watching Orange Is the New Black with Nicole. As she bemoans how painfully self-centered Piper can be, my phone rings, and BRENDAN flashes on the screen. “It’s . . . Brendan?” I remark, surprised. “I’m . . . gonna take this.” I hustle into my bedroom, closing the door behind me.
“Couldn’t wait to talk to me again?” I ask. It’s only been two hours since our date ended.
He chuckles. “Something like that.”
Hmm.
He continues, “Before this goes any further, I thought we should talk.”
Hmm again. Then silence.
A bit perplexed, I try to muster a tone of open-minded understanding. “Okay.”
Silence. So I add, “You called me, right?”
Still silence, so I prod, “What do you want to talk about?”
After an intake of breath, he starts, “I think this is moving a little fast for me, and I think we want different things.”
In my head, a record scratches to a halt. Am I being dumped?
He doesn’t continue, so I follow up, “How so?”
“Well, I just, I just think you might be more into this relationship than I am.”
“Are we in a relationship?” I ask.
“Well, no, but I mean, well . . . I kind of think you think we are.”
“Really?” Admittedly, up until my phone just rang, I was starting to entertain the notion of dating Brendan. Not the notion that we were dating, but the notion that doing so could be . . . nice? But with this insinuation that I am . . . needy? More into him than he is into me? . . . that preconceived notion starts to flutter away.
“Because . . .” I continue and trail off. “Look, you’re a nice guy. We had two nice cups of coffee. And maybe there was some potential for us to . . . I don’t know, date? But we haven’t shared a meal. We haven’t even shared drinks. And we certainly haven’t shared a make-out session or anything remotely resembling a ‘relationship.’”
He’s quiet for a beat and then explains, “Those aren’t the only symbols of a relationship, Alison.”
“I know, Brendan. If you’re asking if I wanted to go on a third date with you . . . I guess . . .” I pause. “Yes. But if you’re asking if I was doodling our names in hearts all over my binders or practicing monogramming our initials together in cursive? I wasn’t.”
He sighs, annoyed. “I guess I’m just saying things are moving too quickly for me. And I either want to slow things down, or be friends. You know, I think maybe be friends.”
After some awkward attempts at politesse, we get off the phone. I walk back into the living room, puzzled.
“What did Brendan have to say?” Nicole asks teasingly, as if on the brink of breaking into song about us sitting in a tree. Though Nicole hasn’t had a serious boyfriend since I’ve known her, she’s had no shortage of suitors. Petite, tan, outgoing, and bubbly, Nicole is (not surprisingly) extremely successful as a medical-device sales rep. She waltzes into the offices of Manhattan’s top spinal surgeons bearing homemade chocolate chip cookies, and she walks out with hefty contracts and commissions. Between the pedigreed doctors, handsome nurses, and hard-partying male sales reps she meets in hospital hallways, Nicole rarely has to work very hard to find herself a date. Accordingly, it is most exciting for her and Cassie to witness my newfound attempt at dating and all the foibles that go hand-in-hand with it.
“He broke up with me?” I say, as if it’s a question. “Two coffee dates and a non-relationship later, and he dumped me?”
“What!” Nicole exclaims. “You have got to be kidding me.”
“Yeah . . . no, that really happened. I think?” I shake my head, brow furrowed and yet smiling at the same time. “I think my nerves can’t decide if I should laugh or cry right now. Am I that pathetic that men want to break up with me when we’re not even dating?”
“No! That is crazy. He is crazy. Where do you find these people?” she says, starting to laugh.
“The Internet, remember? But . . . it gets better, right?” I ask hopefully. “Tell me it gets better,” I plead.
“Ohhhh,” she sympathizes. “But then I’d be lying,” she says, through laughter.
“So what you’re saying is: This is what I’ve been missing out on all these years when I kept saying I wanted to live vicariously through you and Cassie?”
“Yep.”
“And this is what I have to look forward to?”
“Precisely.”
Jsa82: Secret Agent Man (a.k.a. John)
January 20 at 6:51 p.m.
Hi,
Your job sounds fascinating. I grew up in an 1812 farmhouse, so I can see the allure of working (and living) in old buildings. There aren’t many farmhouses in Manhattan though, so what kinds of projects do you work on? If it makes for an easier question, what are your one or two favorite projects to date?
I consider us among the luckier people I know (or hope to know soon). Not many people love their j
obs like we do. Every now and then I complain about my long hours and endless travel and fantasize about retirement, but when your location, projects, and tasks change every week (and it sounds like yours must as well), it certainly keeps life exciting. I feel like I’m learning something new with each day, constantly on a treasure or scavenger hunt.
Are you an Upper East Sider, too? Your profile makes me think you are. Perhaps we’re neighbors?
John
January 21 at 9:15 a.m.
Ooh. The secrecy with which you talk about your job (don’t talk about your job?) is oddly intriguing, particularly given that you neglected to fill out the job section in your profile. Can we play 20 questions? OK, I’ll start:
1.
Do you wear a uniform (other than a business suit)?
2.
Do you speak Arabic?
In terms of my work, I’d say two of the projects I’m on right now are by far the most interesting. But then again, I pretty much say that about every project I’m on when I’m on it. At any rate, one is the treatment of a 17th century antique Italian ceiling that was imported by the Vanderbilts to their mansion in the 1890s. The other is the Seventh Regiment Armory on Park Avenue – maybe you’ve seen it? Its relatively boring brick façade belies the crazy over-the-top interior spaces in which hand-painted wallpaper, decorative plasterwork, and Tiffany glass abound. . . . Goodness, I do sound geeky.
Your childhood home was built in 1812? That is super cool! Houses like yours are the reason I went into architecture to begin with. Was it retrofitted with modern appliances or were there log cabin-y aspects to it? So. Can I restore it? It never occurred to me to seek out potential clients through Match.com, but . . . :) Kidding. Kind of.
Cheers,
Alison
January 22 at 9:48 p.m.
Hey Alison,
The answers to your questions are “no” and “no.” But mum’s the word on my job. I can explain it a little better in person, but I probably shouldn’t transmit information about it over the Internet or in writing. I just reread that, and I sound pretty badass. Don’t get your hopes up too much.
You, however, did not answer my question about where you live. Is that information you don’t want to transmit over the Internet? I’m trying to come up with a location to suggest for our first meeting. I want it to be convenient for you, except I don’t know how to plan for that when you’re secretive about your whereabouts. My turn for questions:
1.
Do you live on the Upper East Side?
2.
Do you live on E. 91st Street?
John
January 23 at 7:14 a.m.
Hi John,
International Man of Mystery, huh? I can’t wait to hear what you do for a living. I’ll hold my questions for our in-person rendezvous but will answer yours:
1.
Yes.
2.
No. (Thank goodness! You seem nice and all, but I would have been super creeped out if you knew my address. Though I guess that’s just how FBI agents like yourself roll.)
When’s good for you? I’m staying up in Hyde Park for work this week, but I’ll be back in town on the weekend.
Cheers,
Alison
Over the course of a few more planning emails that transition to planning texts, John offers to meet at my place and walk over to the restaurant together. Not wanting him to know where I live (what if he’s a serial killer?), I suggest we just meet at the restaurant.
I arrive first, so I stand outside reading the menu. It’s a really nice, pretty pricey spot. Long ago, Dave had informed me that all his friends subscribed to a strict dating formula: first date = drinks at a low-key bar; second date = drinks at a swanky bar; third date = moderate to expensive dinner; fourth date = cheap dinner, to “make sure a girl doesn’t get too used to fancy dinners, and to confirm that she’s not using you for your money.” Accordingly, I’m surprised John picked this as our first date spot. Maybe he’s a jetsetting millionaire? Maybe he’s never dated before? Or maybe he thinks my emails demonstrated a lot of promise? (The latter being the least likely.)
Over appetizers, I finally learn what John does for a living. And it is insanely cool.
“So, you can’t . . .” he clears his throat, “tell anyone, or post a picture of me with my last name anywhere on the Internet.” I lean in across the table, as if I’m about to be complicit in a top-secret exchange of classified information. Which I guess, in a way, I am. “It’s hard to explain, but basically I track illegal natural and animal products. And about-to-be-imported illegal natural and animal products.”
“Like . . . ivory tusks and teak?”
“Exactly. The tusks and teak as raw materials, but also any items that are carved from them: works of art, musical instruments, jewelry.”
“How?”
“All kinds of ways. For instance, we have undercover agents who sign up for trophy hunting trips throughout the Southwest. They will camp and eat and explore with these high-end tourism expeditions, and then right before the leader goes in for a kill, they’ll make the arrest.”
“No way! But those trips are illegal, right? Have you gone on one?”
“Yes, they are illegal, and no, not personally. But I have provided backup for the guys who are undercover.”
“How do you ‘back’ someone up when they’re in the middle of the wilderness?”
“We do stakeouts.”
“In the desert? Or does this not happen in the desert? Am I picturing the wrong . . . ecosphere?”
He nods. “It does happen in the desert, but also in the marshlands and swamplands, et cetera. We also do stakeouts for trading of illegal imported goods. I have to travel for those most often. But we’ll spend months or years tracking a ring of importers and dealers, and then before the arrest, we have to stake out on their property or on the periphery to closely monitor all of their contact and activities.”
“Just like on The Sopranos!” I marvel.
“Yeah. It’s actually a lot like that.”
“How long do you have to camp out—stake out?—for at a time?”
“It can be two or three days per shift.”
“Do you get to sleep?”
“We take turns.”
“Do you have to wear camo?”
He laughs. “Not usually.”
“But sometimes?”
“Ehh.” He hesitates. “Sure. Sometimes.”
“So let’s say you make a big arrest and bring down the . . . international teak trade ring. What do you do with all the artwork you find? Does it go to museums? Can you get me a bejeweled teak tiara?”
He laughs. “We have a giant warehouse in Colorado—like, giant. Like the size of four city blocks.”
“Do you work for the EPA?” I ask.
“US Fish and Wildlife, actually.”
I nod. “And they have a single facility for all this? And it all just gets stashed there?”
“Yeah, it’s crazy. Aisles and aisles and aisles of boxes stacked ceiling-high, filled with illegal artifacts.”
“But that’s so sad! Can’t you catalog it and . . . transform the darker, illicit nature of the products into something that benefits humanity? Like public education, art, or . . . I don’t know. It’s like you save it, only to jettison it?”
“I sort of agree. But there are times when you can’t send the spoils to our warehouse.”
“Like? . . .”
He leans in again, as if divulging clandestine information. “So last year, I got a call in the middle of the night from the security at JFK Airport. They told me I had to come in and pick up a shipment that they couldn’t store overnight. Before telling me what it was, they rattled off all the logistics of access codes to punch in and directions, and I was wondering what it could possibly—”
“What was it?!?” I am quite literally on the edge of my seat.
“It was a polar bear.”
“A polar bear? Like from Antarctica? Or the N
orth Pole? Or wherever polar bears come from?”
“Yep. A polar bear.”
“It was alive?”
“Yep.”
“Was it in a cage? Or on a leash?”
“It was in a cage. How do you think they put it on a plane if it wasn’t in a cage?”
“I think the better question here is: How do they put it on a plane in the first place, cage or no cage?”
“Okay, touché.”
“What did you do with it?”
“I brought it home.”
“No, seriously. What did you do with it?”
“Seriously. I brought it home.” He shrugs. Without meaning to be quite so dramatic, I realize I have actually clapped my hand over my agape mouth.
He starts to laugh. “Okay. First, I called around to all my contacts. We have a small network for these sorts of incidents. So mostly I called a bunch of zoos. I couldn’t get anyone to take it off my hands right away, and the airport’s policy is that they can’t keep it overnight. So I took it to my place, spent all night trying to find a proper home for it, and in the morning was able to ship it over to a zoo in California for temporary holding.”
“Did you take video? Of it in your apartment? Why isn’t there a photo of you and the polar bear watching football on your Match profile?”
“Because then someone might be able to figure out what I do or who I work for. And it’s top secret.”
“Yeah, you’ve mentioned that,” I tease. “But . . . how top secret are we talking? Like, if I knew your last name, could I find you on the Internet?”
“My name, yes; you could find things from college or road races I’ve run or whatever, but my name is never anywhere associated with my address or my photo or my job.”
“I challenge.”
“Sure, give it a try.”
“Homework for tonight. So, if you’re a federal agent, does that mean you own a gun?”
“Yes.”
My biggest fear in life is guns. My heart picks up its pace. “Are you carrying it now?”
“No. Are you crazy?” He smiles.
“I don’t—I don’t know. I don’t know anyone who works for the FBI, or CIA, or . . . Fish and Wildlife. I don’t know if you have to carry it on you at all times.”
Match Made in Manhattan Page 4