INTERNET DATES FROM HELL (8 page)

“Trish, I’ll be out in a minute. I am having trouble finding the plunger. If these toilets aren’t flushed at least once a week up here in the winter, the line freezes.” That was it. I was having trouble breathing, my throat began to close, and hives appeared all over my hands and arms. I had forgotten to remember in all of the confusion that I am highly allergic to cats. I decided to make a dash for the door. To hell with Norman’s plunger and his psycho madness! I was out of there! I made it in seconds to the car, despite the auto parts obstacle course. I was proud of my speed and agility.

I realized my anger and disappointment could not win, for my allergies had beaten them to it. Todd must have heard the door slam, because he was behind me yelling,

“What’s the matter?”

“Antihistamine,” I replied, “I need an antihistamine immediately!”

“You mean aspirin,” he responded.

“No, I need an antihistamine.” Just then I realized that I keep a variety of remedies for headaches and such in a small vial in my purse.

“Your face looks really swollen. Should we go to a hospital?” Todd inquired.

“No, this antihistamine works instantly and will kick in soon. I’d prefer that we head back to the city.”

The hour and a half drive to the George Washington Bridge was in utter silence. Blame it on his embarrassment or on a combination of my anger and my allergies, but neither of us talked. Just as we approached the tollbooth, the silence was broken by yet another phone call from his mother. My mind was made up. I fixated on the long line of cars in the cash lanes as we breezed through the easy-pass lane. In fifteen minutes I would be home.

We crossed the bridge and headed onto the Henry Hudson. The fast journey home came to an abrupt end as the Parkway was completely traffic laden. It was then that Todd began his string of apologies. It was comforting to know that he had some modicum of conscience. He told me that his involvement with Internet dating was his mother’s plan, and he had never intended to engage in it. He said that since his father died, he had been extremely shy around females. Since he was an only child and his mother was husbandless, she was reluctant to let him go. When I asked him when his father passed, he astounded me with the answer: “when I was sixteen years old.”

He proceeded to tell me that for the last nineteen years he had lived in the basement of his mother’s home. He worked as a computer tech, specializing in troubleshooting for the power plant. Since his mother feared lifelong loneliness, she agreed to help him find a marriage partner quickly, so they could all be one happy family. Apparently her dream was to have Todd and his family live in the upstairs of the home, while she took the basement apartment. It struck me then that that was why she was so involved in the redecoration of the basement.

Although sorrow was my first emotion for him, and for his mother too, common sense was in the forefront of my thinking. Before we knew it, we were in front of my apartment building. I prayed that he wouldn’t ask me for another date. My prayers were answered. He apologized one more time, and mentioned that if I was ever in the Poconos, I should look him up. His strange laugh made me feel uneasy because I wasn’t sure if it was sarcastic or sincere. At least I was home, I was safe, and I could breathe again!

8
 

If You Can’t Stand His Voice on the Phone, It Only Gets Worse in Person
 

April 1999

Obviously the experience in chapter 4 with David from Australia wasn’t enough. I needed another dance with accents. Subsequent to my experience with Todd, I removed my profile for a few months. Time off from these experiences was what the doctor ordered. That year’s spring was cold and rainy, which allowed me the opportunity to catch up on my reading and educational research. I couldn’t remember the last time I curled up with a good novel, or laughed at some educational reformer’s diatribe regarding the preschooler’s academic disposition. There were two inches of accumulated dust on my portable rowing machine. So after a couple of months of exercising (I lost ten pounds) and literary pursuit, I felt mentally and physically strong enough to reenter the restricted waters of singles bars and clubs. After two weeks of that nonsense, my fingers again found their way back to the world of the Internet.

There were a couple of definite no’s, including one in which a woman requested that I write to her incarcerated brother as a pen pal. Then a neurosurgeon from India who was currently residing in an affluent town in Connecticut answered my ad. He stated that he was 6’, thirty-three years old, and the head neurosurgeon of a prestigious university hospital in the metropolitan area. Although Rishy stated he was thirty-three, his photograph indicated a much older man. I chose to overlook the possible age factor, due to his deep sense of spirituality with the written word. I really liked the fact that Rishy responded in conjunction with my interests.

When we finally spoke on the phone, his thick foreign accent made me think of my friend Akbar, the manager of a local Indian cuisine restaurant from which I frequently order takeout. The accent was so familiar that I almost interrupted Rishy with, “Light on the curry, please.” Although I was not overwhelmed by his accent at first, it became quickly clear to me that telephone small talk can be totally different from prolonged face-to-face conversations. I thought I could overlook the unpleasant voice, so I decided to give it a go.

To no one’s surprise, Rishy appeared in front of my apartment in a brand new Mercedes SL and, wouldn’t you know it, it was my favorite color, black on black (although I’ve been told that black is not a color, but the absence of all color). Wearing a leisure suit with a polo shirt (as if the leisure suit wasn’t bad enough), I realized that this man was old enough to be my father. The only thing missing was my father’s Old Spice aftershave with the little sailboat on the bottle, although I wished he had some cologne on because he smelled like mothballs. He asked me where I’d like to go.

I responded, “To Akbar’s, of course.”

He responded, “Is it Indian? It doesn’t have to be, you know.”

“I love their Indian food, plus Akbar is a friend of mine.” I replied.

No sooner did we sit at an available table, Akbar greeted us and asked if there was anything he could get us from the bar while we waited for our waiter. Without warning, Rishy ordered for the two of us, never asking me what I wanted. Realizing that many foreign men were like this (especially older ones like Rishy), I accepted his traditional gesture. By the time Akbar returned with our drinks, Rishy had told me that he recognized something in Akbar’s intonation.

“I am willing to wager he is from New Delhi.”

“Why do you say that?” I inquired.

“His inflection is of New Delhi.”

Serving us our drinks, Akbar asked Rishy if he was from northern or southern New Delhi. When Rishy responded northern, Akbar promptly sat down at our table. He snapped his fingers twice and our waiter appeared at our table. Akbar ordered the same drink as we were drinking and went as far as ordering our meals. I quietly acquiesced. I thought to myself, “The drink is one thing, but the entree also?” Well, Akbar knew me, so I wasn’t apprehensive.

The men downed their drinks in some odd measure of bravado; I was neither impressed nor interested in it. They then promptly ordered more drinks, both by snapping their fingers. Until that point I hadn’t touched mine, so I thought it might be due time that I did. I raised the glass to my lips, smelling it before I tasted it. It was the most awful stench from a liquid I have ever experienced, save the time I inadvertently mistook my uncle’s glass of scotch for an orange soda. Taking the slightest of sips, I immediately put my glass down, because this was the most potent drink I had ever tasted. All the while the men talked in their native language, which seemed to thicken with every sentence they spoke. By the meal’s end, Rishy was so drunk that his speech was incomprehensible. Between the accent and idiomatic traditional expressions, which he now was insistent upon using, I was befuddled. When I interjected at times for clarification purposes, he became angry. I pleaded with him, “No offense, but I have no idea what you are saying.” At this time Rishy became irate. The last thing I remember before leaving the restaurant was Akbar calming Rishy down by imploring him loudly to lower his voice. After walking several blocks and passing some belligerent homeless drunk, I decided to choose safety and hailed a taxi (if you can believe there is refuge in a New York City cab). I told the driver, who was coincidentally also of Indian descent, to take me to 34th Street and 9th.

He said, “You are on the 34th Street and 7th Avenue.”

“I know, I’m just not in the mood for dealing with anymore drunks tonight. Maybe you can answer a few questions for me if you don’t mind.”

He quickly replied, “Certainly, Miss,” so I asked him:

“Are you from New Delhi, and if so, from which part, north or south?”

“The south, of course. I drive a cab,” He responded.

He proceeded to tell me that those from the north are traditionally affluent. He said he was glad to be from the south, where equality between the sexes reigned. If it wasn’t for the poverty level, southern New Delhi would be a beautiful place to live. He finished by saying that in a little over a year he would have enough money so that his family could move to New York. Although he had an accent, not once did I have trouble understanding this man. He spoke the proper English to which I had grown accustomed. After paying him, we said our goodbyes and my spirit was lifted. Little did I think that a southern New Delhi cabbie would raise my spiritual awareness more than Rishy originally intended to. In the elevator of my apartment building, I realized this was the most intelligent conversation I had had in some time. If only Rishy had been half as eloquent as my cabbie friend, then who knows how different that date would have been. It’s funny to think of the nerve of that neurosurgeon!

9
 

Watch Out for Pathological Liars
 

May 1999

Thirty-year-old Rob contacted me next. He mentioned in his e-mail that he was a Hawaiian-born investment banker. Although his piercing black eyes were quite attractive, there was something deep in those eyes that bothered me. It wasn’t until the conversation on the phone that I realized what it was. It began as small talk and chitchat until the topic of birth arose. When he asked me where I was born, I told him in Mineola, New York. He responded with a cute, “If there is a Mini-ola, is there a Maxi-ola?” When it was my turn to question his location of birth, I realized what was in those eyes. As I previously mentioned, deceit can come in any form or fashion. This time it was in his answer. His answer was, “I was born on the island of Kona.” I responded, “I beg your pardon—the island of Kona?” “Yes,” he answered curtly. It was at this point that I either told him of my recent trip to Hawaii or was about to tell him. No matter which, Rob quickly changed the subject. He wanted to meet me next Thursday evening, since Friday he had to attend a banking conference at the Jacob Javits Center. He suggested that we meet for coffee at a local coffeehouse close to my apartment.