Coffee Rhetoric: You're Blind Me with Stupidity: A One Act Play/First Person Narrative

November 21, 2005

You're Blind Me with Stupidity: A One Act Play/First Person Narrative

 Scenario: A few months ago, while hovering in front of one of the insurance buildings downtown, I met an attractive, artsy looking guy... I'll call him Buddha. It was raining that day. Not hard, but sort of misting. Let me walk you through the Affair That Never Was…

 ... I was huddled under my umbrella, waiting for a bus. This rotund, light-skinned, black man entertained us would-be bus passengers with loud, dissonant singing. He would throw in an occasional "whoo!!" for emphasis. I guess he wanted to give the impression that he was tearing some shit up, notwithstanding the fact that the singing was loud, distracting, and downright horrible. I saw a pair of feet, inching somewhat closer to me, during the impromptu concert. Donny Hatha-find-a-way had made his way closer towards those of us standing near a stoop.

He sat down, and continued on with his show. I looked to my left and saw the feet move closer, next to me. I thought the pair of feet was merely trying to inch away from D.H.-Not. Finally, I put down my umbrella, and there I saw him. Buddha. Mr. Wonderful In all his tall, lanky glory. Clad in denim... poetic, with a thick, glorious crown, stuffed under an Ivy cap. "Hi," he said. I returned the greeting. We engaged in small talk.
He asked where I was from. I told him. He said I looked other-worldly; unlike anyone living in town. He dug my style, and said my hair was "beautiful" I spied my bus pulling up to the stop. I bid him farewell, he asked for my phone number before I scurried away. He thought it'd be cool if we got together sometime for lunch, coffee, or an "activity at his church" I quickly made it clear to him that I was unashamedly atheist, and that particular activity would probably not be happening anytime soon. I told him I wasn't looking for anyone to proselytize to me. He named some weird sounding religious sect he belonged to... I put my hand up to stop him and shook my head no. Anyway, I said bye, and ran for my bus.

Several weeks later (around the time I got invited to talk about my blog), he called and left a message on my voicemail, while I was enroute to Trinity College, to see about this graduate course on blogs. I didn't hear from him, for weeks. I had no way of reciprocating his call, for he never gave me his phone number. ... First conversations are just as crucial as the first date. They're very telling. You want to make the best impression, possible. Needless to say, he didn't.

 It started off okay. He said he was born in Jamaica, and raised in Brixton. He asked me if I knew of Brixton. I said, "Yes, it's like the Harlem of London..." he continued on anyway, cutting me off, as if he were enlightening me on something I didn't know about -- (insert my first eye roll here). The conversation continued going downhill, increasingly. He tried to convince me that Jamaica didn't have any problems to contend with, and how racism didn't exist there. I said, "Um, excuse me, but Jamaica is rife with economic problems, and while racism isn't as cut and dry as it is here... “He cut me off, again, in all his long-winded glory.

Um, Jamaica has all kinds of people. Um, um, there is no racism... blah blah blah blah... owes money to World Bank… blah blah blah blah, so you should check your facts first, before you make that statement."
 
"EXCUSE YOU, I began, but I did, and I do check my facts. Perhaps you should let people finish their thought before you cut them off and condescend to them."
 
He continued on with his hot-winded, weirdo diatribes, about himself and how Jamaica has all sorts of people. He was repetitive, is a horrible listener and self-absorbed. I told him several times that I have 2 sisters; he'd talk about himself, and then ask me repeatedly, if I had any sisters or brothers. I'd remind him that I already told him I did, several times during the course of our conversation. I asked him what his interests were. He went on some strange rant about how he's trying to be discovered. I asked him what he was doing to ensure that he would be discovered. He stuttered around the question; so basically, nothing. No drive. He'd ask me about my interests, cut me off... yet again, this time, claiming to "know me and what my dating history has been like" because I reminded him of his girlfriend, oops, "my friend" Belinda, and would proceed to tell me how he thought I was. He had no clue. He went on.... and on... and on. He gave me his phone number... We got disconnected. I called him back. Instead of a greeting from him, I got one from a recorded message saying, the subscriber you called, has not set up an account yet. ???????? I shrugged, and went back to reading The Times, which I stole from work.

Ten minutes later, he calls back. "Sorry, I got a prepaid phone. I used up my free fifteen minutes, and I have to put more minutes on the phone. I'm talking to you from a pay phone now." strike bazillion. (He'd already used up strikes one thru several billion with his propensity towards talking incessantly about nothing and himself and not having a pot to piss in, or a window to throw it out of).

We continued our hand at having a quasi-intelligent conversation, to no avail. He picked up where he left off... talking about himself. He thought he knew everything. I asked him if he had an e-mail address I could contact him at. He said that he wasn't computer literate and didn't know how to operate e-mail (At the ripe age of 28, no less. How does he function at work, IF he's being honest about even having a legitimate job??) He wouldn't let me get a word in edgewise. I sighed heavily, several dozen times. "Hello?" he said, in response to my sighs; he said he wasn't living anywhere in particular... with a bunch of guys, that he wouldn't dream of inviting a girl there. It sounded sketchy to me. He kept asking me where I lived, impressed that I lived alone. I declined providing him with the details. See, I'm not too keen on men thinking just because a woman lives alone that's a ticket for him to hone in and take advantage. Not on my dime. He continued to drone on, about... nothing. He said he likes to prepare exotic meals (several dozen times, he repeated this) and mentioned he was extremely Afrocentric, but didn't mind interracial dating. At one point, I put the phone on speaker, set it down, sat back, and continued to read the NY Times. Paris was still burning. North African youth were being reassured... He kept going... French-Senegelese playwright and author, Marie Ndiaye's play Hilda is appearing off-broadway, in NY... in a limited run. …  and going...  French-born Ndiaye had her first novel, "Quant au riche avenir" published at the age of 17. ... wow,  interesting. … and going...

 "...you know, there's Jamaican-Chinese and White Jamaican... there're a lot of different cultures in Jamaica. They just owe a lot of money to the World Bank. Hello? Hello?"
He had the nerve to suggest that I should call him, so that we can get together for lunch. I picked up the phone upon hearing the low battery beep... I tried to cut him off, tell him my phone's battery was about to die; to hold on and let me plug it in its charger. He just kept babbling. I said, "HELLO-OOOOOOOOOOOO-OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO???" He kept going, slowly, In this boring, low, stutter-ridden monotone. I finally gave up, shrugged, and flipped the phone shut. I figured the likelihood of him calling me back was... well... not likely, since he didn't have a phone. He was probably sans change, so the pay phone would've been out.

Two weeks ago, at about 11:30pm, my phone rang... I didn't answer. I figured it was him. I rolled over and went back to sleep.

Thursday, at 8:30 in the AM... on my day off.. My phone rang. I thought it was one of my sisters or perhaps my mother. I answered.

"Hi, coffey, it's Buddha. Why don't you call me?"
"Are you kidding me, calling me at 8:30 in the morning ??? I have to go!"
"Wait!" he says. "I got a new number, a new prepaid phone. I got this hot new deal..."
"Dude, whatever, I'm hanging up." 

He hurriedly spit out his new number... breathless... as if sensing I was about to push the hang-up icon on my phone. Fin
 
You know, as much as I lament my single status, it's frustrating when guys don't get the hint when you tell them you aren't interested after all and that you don't have anything in common. I wanted to like this guy. He seemed my type. I think the situation irritates me so, because I just don't like when someone else's baggage seeps into my life. I like simplicity. I have my share of problems, but nothing too dramatic. And I like it that way. I also felt just for a spell, "Why me? Why can't I find someone compatible?? What did I do to deserve such horrible luck?"

It's not so much about me not having someone. It's about me being a magnet for the biggest bunch of losers known to man. Buddha, fuck off. You disappoint me. Don't call me again. Thank you and have a nice day.
Scene.