The Dirty Hipster, Part I

It was the beginning of May.  Spring.  New beginnings.  Blahblahblah.  I had been talking to this drummer I’d matched with on Tinder when I was in LA whose band just so happened to be passing through Chicago on tour.  The particular Friday of the show was a slow one at work so I didn’t refuse when a coworker tried to sabotage my life with two very strong margaritas at the weekly office happy hour.  Knowing I would have time to kill between work and the show, I then accepted two tickets to a wine tasting event, bribing a friend to accompany me to meet the drummer with the promise of many free, delicious wines.

Heftily inebriated and covered in fake tattoos after “Wine Riot” 2k13, the successfully-bribed friend and I stopped at my apartment to…well I’m not sure why we did that, but I figured it would be the perfect time to catch up on my correspondence.  I called a friend of ours, you know, just to say hi (Note: this will be the second drunk dial of the night; I had already called another LA-based Tinder guy because apparently the only people I meet anymore are from Tinder.) and he almost immediately passed off the phone.  The lucky stranger I was now speaking to introduced himself as Cornelius.

“I know you’re f*cking with me; I’m not that drunk,” I told him.  “One day, we’re gonna meet and you’ll be sorry.”

 I hung up and dragged my friend to the show with a tinge of excitement to be embarking on what felt like a quintessentially 20-something, NY-esque adventure.

At the show, an unarguably necessary beer in hand, my friend rapidly started fading and sat down to give her feet a momentary break from her poorly-planned stilettos.  Somehow – in that magical way things just happen when you’re drunk – I ended up in a conversation with some Jewish kid.  From Alaska.  I didn’t even know that was possible.  Ten minutes later, my friend left and about 30 seconds after that, Alaskan Jew was wrapped around my body like we had just announced our engagement, as we swayed to the music of the drummer I was there to meet. 

The Alaskan Jew awkwardly craned his neck around and tried to kiss me, but was met only with the palm of my hand.  The show finally ended and I couldn’t find my drummer, so I decided to go meet up with a couple friends (one of whom was the guy I called earlier) clear across town.  Alaskan Jew walked me out, asked for my number and if he could kiss me now.

 “I guess…but just a little one.  There are people around.  We are in the street and I’m too old for this shit.”

He presumptuously stuck his tongue down my throat, I gave him my number assuming he wouldn’t call (he did; we went on a date), and I hopped in a cab.

I arrived at the hipsteriest bar of all time and unabashedly danced my way through the door, much to the dismay and embarrassment of my friends, while repeatedly announcing my curbside kiss with the Alaskan Jew.  As I said hello to two familiar faces, one laughed, noting that he had not seen me that drunk since college (#winning), and I turned to meet the unfamiliar face in this all-too-calm trio – a methodically unkempt hipster.  Cornelius.  

The Jewish Mother

            I know people are supposed to be offended by stereotypes, but at a certain point, we all have to admit that they exist for a reason. I have some friends who will like watermelon and fried chicken more than I ever will, some friends who will always be terrible drivers, and Jewish boys will always be obsessed with their mothers.
            Every Jewish mom, aunt, neighbor, or stranger in line behind you at the market thinks you are the perfect match for their son, daughter, niece, stranger they met in line at the market. As young, single Jews, we grow to expect and tentatively accept this as a fact of dating, of life. In the relatively recent past, however, I had the ultimate Jewish dating experience. A Jewish mother…setting me up with her son…via JDate. The message was as follows:

Not Being Weird
The Jewish mother in me just took over, and had to email you because you're adorable and so is my 26 year old son. He's also taking one of the three Jewish paths! 
He's on Facebook, J**** S****. 
Tell him his mom sent you! 
S****

            Just in case you’re paying attention, I am, in fact, not taking one of the three Jewish paths, but we’ll set that aside for the moment. This mother and I spent some time getting to know each other, via JMail of course, and I truly enjoyed talking to her. I couldn’t help but question, however, what a kid would be like who agreed to a date his mother set up for him…via JDate. But then I guess I’d have to question what type of girl I am to agree to a date with a kid whose mother set him up via JDate. And I’m just not prepared to do that.
            Admittedly (and embarrassingly) a little flattered, I agreed to meet her son. She continually insisted I find him on Facebook and reach out to him, to which I kindly and consistently suggested he initiate contact with me instead.
            Jewish mothers always win.
            I sent him a message on Facebook, which he was expecting, and we went out for dinner that weekend. It was great. He was super interesting and I could have listened to a thousand stories about his family, particularly my favorite future mother-in-law. We finished eating and he asked if I wanted to go grab a drink elsewhere. Being the lush that I am, it was not an offer I could turn down.
            We got in his car and headed to a nearby bar.
            “Let’s call my mom.”
            I laughed. “Wait, really?”
            She didn’t answer the first time and he divulged that she doesn’t answer all his calls, due to their quantity. We tried again, succeeded, and the three of us chatted all the way to the bar.
            At the bar, we unknowingly stumbled into a trivia night and decided to play, continuing first-date chatter in between rounds of questions. A music-themed section started and a question came up we couldn’t answer (which isn’t saying much; we weren’t exactly dominating up to that point anyway). Frustrated he should know (he has a family of legit musicians), but didn’t, he decided to call his mother. Granted, she was a professional musician, but his mother nonetheless. Overlooking the fact that this is definitely cheating, I would like to point out that this is now the second time we spoke to his mother on our first date. It was as strange as she was fabulous.
            Another round of beers later, he dropped me off at my car. We did not kiss goodnight. I have not heard from his mother since.

The Chase

Halloween weekend was the last time I saw him.  

He was too cute: a short Jew with blond hair, absolutely perfect teeth (my weakness), and a knack for sarcasm.  You wouldn’t know from looking at him, but he had a level of OCD to rival mine.

That weekend, I somehow peer pressured him into meeting me in a neighborhood he preferred not to frequent.  He came straight from a charity event and wore a nice suit.  I, on the other hand, was dressed as a rocker, socializing with two nerds, a panda, and a “pussy magnet.”  He spent about ten minutes making it very clear he did not want to be there and we left.

Neither of us had a coat, but we ventured out to find a cab anyway.  Huge mistake.  My friends left fairly shortly after we did and found cabs almost immediately.  He and I, however, spent about 30 minutes braving piercing winds trying to find a way home.  He yelled at me, whined about the cold (as though I was toasty warm and couldn’t empathize with his discomfort), and repeatedly shot down any solution I suggested.

While yelling at me for things I cannot control will undoubtedly make the wind stop and a cab appear, I foolishly decided to try something else.  I called one of the girls, and her boyfriend, I was out with and begged them to turn their cab around and pick us up.  I needed the night to be over.

The boy and I posted up on a corner and waited to be rescued.  While bouncing around to stay warm, a tall young man in a t-shirt began talking to us.  Drunk, but seemingly harmless, he volunteered the information that his girlfriend was trying to find him to pick him up; he asked us how far away she was (very) and let us know that he couldn't even call her because he had both their cellphones.  Solid planning.  He and I spoke for a few minutes and to my suggestion that he go wait inside a nearby fast food restaurant, he said, “Hey, do you think I could use one of your phones?  I can figure out how to get the number I need, but I can’t make it dial.”

Umm…no.  Unfortunately for him, the stranger got stuck with two extremely neurotic people and it didn’t help that he just plain didn’t make any sense.  I said nothing and the boy politely declined, falsely inserting that his phone had died.  Just as the boy was whispering to me not to use my phone, my friend – our rescuer – called.  Assuming she was back and trying to find me, I answered.

The stranger began cursing me out (I heard none of it; the boy told me later), infuriated that I dared to use the phone that belonged to me without letting him, a crazy stranger, use it.  Before I knew what was happening, the stranger took a swing at the boy.  The boy effortlessly ducked under the stranger’s arm, causing the stranger to lose balance and face plant off the curb into the street.  Seeing an opportunity for escape (because really, whom is he going to fight?), the boy took off running.  Into traffic.  And the stranger stood up and took off after him.  Now silently on the phone with my friend, I confusedly watched the two boys weave in and out of traffic like a very scary, adult game of tag.

As I tried to piece together what exactly was happening, through the phone I heard a piercingly loud scream and shouts of, “That’s him!”  Of all the cars in the street, the boy and the stranger had totally by coincidence thrown themselves up against my friend’s backseat cab window and were rolling down the length of the car, arms flailing.  As they peeled themselves off the side of the cab, the stranger stripped the boy’s nice suit jacket off and threw it to the ground.  In response, the boy grabbed the stranger’s t-shirt in an attempt to pull him down and make it stop.  Instead, he just ripped that t-shirt right off the stranger’s body.

The now shirtless stranger chased the boy up onto the curb.  My friend’s boyfriend – a tall, fit man – stepped out of the cab, and only calmly asked, “What is going on?”  And the chase ended.

“Nothing.  It’s cool,” the stranger said.  And he wandered away into the night.  Shirtless and alone.

I, of course, spent the rest of the evening beside myself with laughter and woke up the next morning still laughing.  Actually, I still laugh.  We texted a little after that, but it didn’t work out.