Yankees Win, I Lose

Unfortunately, my date with the Columbia student was nothing short of a disaster…

At 8 PM, Gavin texts me and says he’s on the road heading back from a conference in D.C. He also adds that he’s taking longer than expected due to numerous bathroom stops. I don’t know why this is pertinent info to text, but I brush it aside, figure he’s just joking around.

An hour later, he calls me and screams into the phone, “Where do you live again?!” He’s yelling over the blaring music and honking cab noises of Times Square. I wonder why he thought I live in Times Square, but again brush it off and tell him to head a few avenues west to my apartment.

Soon he is in my lobby, waiting for me to come downstairs. I take four yucky shots of Southern Comfort, chase them down with expired vegetable juice, and hop on the elevator.

When I see him, he looks much like I remembered him, but about six inches shorter. I hug him and act overall excited to see him even though my four-inch clogs make me about two inches taller than him (I am only 5’1” - you do the math). He’s wearing light blue jeans, an untucked shiny green button down shirt (the type you would only wear with a suit, not with jeans) and scuffed up New Balance tennis shoes. His face is slightly handsome, but surprisingly covered in deep wrinkles. I wonder if he lied about being 28.

By now it’s 10 PM and the Yankees are playing my home state in a series game, so I suggest we watch the game at a nearby sports bar.

The bar is chock full of Yankess fans in head-to-toe regalia; hooping, hollering and overall acting like banshees. My team is winning! I think this is going to be an interesting game, but I can’t so much as take a peek at the score because Gavin talks my ear off. Does this kid ever shut up, like ever? I don’t say a peep for at least 20 minutes straight. I find it unattractive when men are not into sports, and he clearly is unfazed by the game. Suddenly, the Yankess are up by three and it’s already the bottom of the 8^th.

Meanwhile, I’ve also been holding the same empty beer glass for that 20 minutes, all the while Gavin has had a new beer twice, both times shooing off the waitress before I can order. He doesn’t even ask me if I’d like another drink.

So we sit. He talks. I try to catch glimpses of the game, to no avail.

At midnight, I have to pee so I excuse myself. Since the bar’s main clientele tonight is men ages 18-45, there is no line to the women’s room and I come back to my seat next to Gavin within four minutes. Upon my return, I notice Gavin has ordered himself a gin and tonic, yet still no drink for me. He continues his story about his father's recent affair with his 19-year-old intern (Why would he tell me this?), and I notice that the Yankees have won. They beat my home team, and I didn’t see even one play.

Finally, I tell Gavin I have to get going, I have an early plane to catch (I really do). And he responds, “Just let me know when you have to leave.” Isn’t that precisely the reason I told him I have to head home?

He yaps another 10 straight minutes, and the time on my watch says 1 AM. I am pissed; how did I spend three hours with this guy?

“Are you going to have another drink?” I ask, trying to speed things along.

“I’ll have one if you’re having one,” he responds, winking his left eye. I haven’t had a drink in two hours, so I don’t know who he’s fooling. I motion the waitress and she places the bill in front of him. For a painfully long time, the bill sits there, and I wonder if he expects me to pay it. I say I must get home, for the 4^th or so time, and he finally picks up the bill. I am so annoyed that I do not offer to pay for my beer. Why should I? He basically prohibited my ordering drinks the entire evening.

He pays the bill and we leave. He offers to walk me home and I tell him there’s no need, but he insists. When we arrive to the front door of my building, I shake his hand then wave goodnight and run into my apartment.

I could care less if I ever see Gavin again.