The Bookie and I met at a bar downtown. He was very handsome, tall, charming, and not your average Park Avenue trail mix of Broker, Banker, Analyst, Oh My! (I’ll tell you that story later). I couldn’t really place the coolness he had about him; it was very mysterious. So when he said, “I think I should take you to dinner Sunday night,” I jumped at the chance.
You can imagine my surprise when I opened my door that Sunday and The Bookie said that I was “much better looking than he remembered.” Out loud. These types of statements are ones that I often think, but I do not say them out loud at the beginning of our first date.
We walked through Disney New York to a quiet, quintessential date spot where the questioning began. He kept looking at me strangely. He would ask me a question, pause, then I would answer, and he would pause and nod. The guy was trying to read me! Good thing that I don’t lie, ever (although sometimes I stretch the truth).
The menu came to the table. He read it slowly and said, “I bet I know what you’re going to get.” He completely guessed wrong, and actually looked offended and hurt.
Dinner continued and I realized that I had completely mischaracterized this guy. He danced around the question when I asked him what he did for a living. Architect, restaurateur, adventure sports athlete? No clue. So much significance is put on what we do; just like a business card, you can neatly categorize someone once you figure out their occupation. I decided that I would just let it go and see what happened next.
We walked back to my door on his way home and he gave me another sound byte: “I give this date an 8.” An 8? I mean, I don’t want someone to say a 6 or a 10, so I guess it’s the best choice, but as far as I’m calculating, an 8 is an 80%, or a B-. I would have gone with 8.2 or something similar. Ok, I would have gone with 8, too. This is beside the point . . . who rates their dates out loud?
“Yeah, you’re cuter than I remembered, I liked dinner, and we’re going to go out again, but a 10 would have been having sex in the bathroom.” I could not believe the words that were coming out of his mouth.
Later that week the Bookie asked me to go for a run in the park… in the middle of the day, apparently forgetting that people work in the big tall buildings that are everywhere in this city. I declined, but agreed to have a weekend dinner with him with one objective in mind.
The Bookie, a true gentleman minus his occasional ‘thinking out loud’ problem, picked me up and took me to a great restaurant. Slowly we started on the career topic again and the cat flew out of the bag and onto the hibachi table:
He bets. Legally, questionably, for others, etc. He goes to Vegas. Hence, “The Bookie.”
I thought he was joking, kind of like when I tell people that I manage the flow of people watching in Central Park (P.S. If this job exists, please tell me who to speak to about it). It was kind of cool, kind of weird. I mean, “Hey Dad, would you like to meet my boyfriend? He’s tall, handsome, fun, sweet, and has questionable ethics.”
He was leaving for a “trip” the following week, so he asked to see me for a quick dinner before he left. I was actually excited after our mini-date to see him when he got back.
It didn’t happen, and I never heard from him again. I guess what happens in Vegas really does stay in Vegas.
--M.G.
