That Time I Got Picked up in NYC

Don’t worry. He didn’t actually pick me up.

I spent the last few days in New York, the concrete jungle where dreams are made, inspired by the lights. Last night, I met a friend of a friend with some potential career connections at the Honky Tonk.* Networking and such – you know, being a professional. Our time had come to an end, but Game 2* was live and my AirBnB did not have cable, so I opted to stay at our high top to watch.

I noticed a couple men eying the table, so being the generous person I am, I offered to switch places with them. They were standing by a single bar stool. “Well, actually, we were just going to come sit with you,” they laughed, and I allowed it. They would ask me later if that was the response I secretly wanted to elicit. I told them, no, I was perfectly content watching the game in silence. You're men in suits, and this is the World Series.

They both worked in the fintech world. While I have a limited concept of finance, I actually grasp fintech, so I managed to sound reasonably intelligent. I was my usual charming, witty self, oozing class, yelling at the TV.

Politics was mentioned once. Ughhh. I can’t wait until the elections are over. One was an avid supporter of Hilary and one was a hesitant supporter of Trump. I took a neutral, silent stance to avoid arguments, as I find them quite unproductive.* When one insisted that any Trump supporter was crazy, I was compelled to say, “I understand why reasonable people are voting for him,” mostly because I don’t like sweeping generalizations. He kept going; I let him speak his mind. My energies were focused on the game.

The better looking one was married, but, of course, he still managed to get in a few light arm touches and leg grazes to boost his ego while he acted as wingman. Eventually, though, his role played, his time had come, and he bid the two of us farewell.

Ahh the game as old as time. There we were, talking about the butt loads of money he had made, Indians still stinking up the joint, and me planning my escape. I don’t mean to sell the man short. He seemed very intelligent and quite kind to this point. Nor am I getting on a moral high ground. If he had looked a little more like Ryan Reynolds or Kyrie Irving, this story may have ended quite differently, with me planning my life in New York instead of regaling you with this riveting tale.

As it was, he didn’t, but unfortunately, the game compelled me to stay a bit longer. There’s no clock in baseball, and I wasn’t about to miss a rally. His phone rang and he ignored it. It was Lydia, a broad of interest* I imagine, a quality backup. I wanted to tell him he was wasting his time and should probably answer it, but I was distracted by the plate of nachos that were placed before me. They looked super tasty.

I decided my move was to text a friend to join our conversation, effectively relaying the hint while still being able to indulge and watch the game. I took a nacho, tickled with my genius.

Then my suitor called me a racist. I was pretty focused on the food, so I’m not positive the context, but I believe he was alluding to my previous comment regarding reasonable people supporting Trump. Slightly taken aback, I calmly told him I was not a racist.

He repeated himself. I went into more detail, elaborating on the various reasons I am not a racist.

Then he insisted. And then, fist deep in nachos, I went white girl crazy. If you were wondering, my white girl crazy includes words like: “extrapolated, non-sequitur, presumptuous, ignorant, disgusting,” with a couple more forceful ones for emphasis. Three minutes and ten nachos later, it’s safe to say he will be very hesitant before casually tossing around the word racist like it’s a term of endearment.

Shortly thereafter, Lydia called again.* This time, he answered. I texted my friend. His services were no longer required. The Indians lost. The nachos were gone – incidentally, my aggressive consumption of said nachos may have been another catalyst for his departure.

I stopped by 7/11, grabbed a Snickers, hopped in an Uber and went home.

I’m still mad at myself for the nachos and Snickers and my fingers are puffy, so I hope the story brought you entertainment, and perhaps solace to all those people in relationships that you are no longer operating in this world. But I promise, as long as I mingle, I will continue to share. Though gentlemen, please don’t let the promise of endlessly entertaining stories keep you from trying to remove me from that world. It’s a jungle out there.


*I realized writing this sentence that the Honky Tonk could be the place where he has connections rather than the place where we met, but I didn’t want to change it.

*If you don’t know to which game 2 I’m referring, we should reevaluate our friendship.

*Unless it’s an argument about how overrated Steph Curry is or the validity of the NCAA. Then I’ll argue for hours.

* (or BOI, as I like to call us)

* come on woman, the guy didn’t return your first call, play it cool.