Manhattan is the ultimate foraging ground; with thousands of shops each stocked up to the ceiling with anything and everything one can ever want or need. Despite all this variety and quantity, one has to search quite aggressively to find just the right shade of gray and the right cut for a pair of trousers. Forget trying to find anything in black. Black is the official color of Manhattan. Everyone that needs to feel powerful at work wears black.
By the time you haul your sorry ass to the department store only crazy yellows, strange oranges, and other selections from the Rainbrow Brite's closet are left behind. After a couple of cold winter months and tough luck at the department stores, I gave up on trying to beef up my business casual selection for work. Instead, I persuaded my employers that punk and grunge were the next power-suit.
Whenever I walked by an Urban Outfitters, it was "uncle" all over again. It was as if I was pulled into the store by some invisible tracking beam. The store I went to most frequently was in my neighborhood on 3rd Avenue. It was a small store that usually had limited selection but they always left me alone there so I hung around for a while. Some customers sometimes even asked me questions; I guess I looked like I belonged there. Sad that is, considering that I was 28 years old, an ex-internet specialist with two degrees from expensive schools.
One day I met the manager of the store by accident. He seemed like a nice guy; obviously gay with the fakest dye job, and a lisp that could not hide behind the curtain of manager's voice. We talked for a while. I did not mind it at all, I was already planning to spend a good hour there anyway. He was very friendly, almost too friendly. Like most other Manhattan guys he was perpetually stuck in the hunting mode and did not know how to relate to someone of same sex in a non-sexual manner. He was all flirty and it was kind of cute, in a two puppies running into each other and falling on their back kind of way. So I watched on as he clowned. After my attention span had trailed off, I told him I had to be off and I left.
I chuckled to myself as I walked towards the gym. This guy's scene was ultra spiritual; he was planning on becoming a monk. I don't have any problems with that except that it seemed too good to be true. Many Manhattan guys have a marketing a pitch, something that is supposed to make them special: The multiple personality guy(s), the office worker that was in the Twin Towers, the guy who's on TV, the water board office clerk from Erin Brockovich, the guy with HIV, the guy with too many muscles, the stripper that's actually the next hot shot writer, the Harley Davidson guy with long hair that actually is the writer of children's books, the list goes on... And now here's one new addition to the list, the spiritual guy; kind of made me wonder whether I had a pitch for myself, and would it be? The Turkish misfit who can never really go home? Oh that's so sad, give me lots of attention already.
It was not as if I was looking for a soul mate. I had one of those; though he always ended up miles and miles away from me most of the time. At the time my significant other was still working in Long Island and commuting to Austin Texas on the weekends. He and I got to see each other every third week or so. I tried to tell myself this was normal, and that this was enough, but at a gut level it just was not enough.
So I was not planning to date, to trick with or do anything funny with this Urban Outfitter manager. Next time I ran into him, he asked if we could have dinner together. I was a little suspicious so I turned it into a lunch. Whenever you're in doubt about a guy's intentions, don't accept to have dinner with him --that only leads to trouble. Just have a lunch.
Of course he sniffed it right away and said, "ugh, lunch that's so non-committal." I was surprised that he caught on that fast but I saw it as a good thing. It meant less work for me.
So we met for lunch the next day. After we met at the store, we walked down to Lemon Leaf --a great Thai restaurant on 3rd Avenue. He was ultra strange that day --stressed, snappy and somewhat catty. The lunch was a miserable experience. He kept nagging me about this and that, yanking my chain and calling me names. It was the kind of abuse I could only take from a very good friend I had known for a while. Naturally, all of this teasing coming from a complete stranger was completely out of place for me.
A pattern was starting to emerge for me. It was just not a good idea to have meals with people I did not know too well. It just meant that I had to spend the whole duration of the meal with the person and take the potential torture until the check has been paid.
He paid for the check and I did not even offer which is very unusual -- usually I pounce on the check because that's what you do in Turkey. It was a miserable lunch, and as far as I was concerned he could make it better by paying for it.
After lunch, he asked me if I wanted to come by his place. I had visited his apartment briefly the day before. It was kind of this extra crammed, run down place that I frankly did not care to visit one more time. So I said nah, thanks I have errands to run in the afternoon. By this time he was livid. I think he thought that by paying for lunch he bought himself some of my time at his place. Frankly I was offended. He followed this offer with offering to come to my apartment with me. This option I did not care about either because
- his behavior at lunch had proven him insane
- I did not want him to know where I lived
- I was afraid he might jump on me or something in my apartment.
Of course when I told him that I did not want him to come to my apartment he did not take that too well. By this time I was just ready to turn and leave no matter what. So although he was still fuming on the hot East Village sidewalk, I said bye and turned around and left.
On the way home I got a little paranoid that he might be following me, so I must have taken the most convoluted way home.
I got into the elevator, got off on fourth floor and entered apartment 4F as in Frank. I closed the door. I was home. I was safe. The episode was over. I exhaled.
