The Dumpling’s Street Pickup

The Second Essential Scary Truth

One of the wonderful things about living in New York is the opportunity to meet so many different people in so many different ways.  In a deli line for coffee, on the subway or walking down the street, it’s a differnet game in Gotham.  While at NYU, I met a girlfriend while walking out of Grand Central Station.  There are so many chances in fact, that putting an ad on an Internet dating site seems anti-climactic.  However, that hasn’t stopped me from trying that very platform to meet someone.  It just seemed safer, saner; a clean way to enlarge the potential dating pool.

Tuesday, I was out drinking with my friend Jenny Goode and we commiserated about our lack of significant others.  After explaining why I was exploring the 21st Centuries newest matchmaker she asked me how I was finding the experience.  “It would be nice to get a reply out of most of the women I sent e-mails,” I said.  “General politeness would dictate at least a thanks but no thanks reply.”

“I know what you mean,” the Dumpling told me.  “I tried one of those sites last month and thought I had hit it off with this one guy.  When I got his third e-mail I was shocked at the kinky things he wanted to do to me, pull my hair, whack my ass and all these other things I thought were just so dehumanizing.  It was just gross, what a jerk.”

I agreed with her.  It seems that when you are contacting someone via e-mail first instead of meeting face to face, all dating protocols go out the window.  “That’s what you get when you remove human contact,” I said miserably.  The barman put more drinks in front of us.  I sighed.  That’s what you get when you go out with the Dumpling, discussions of being really single and a dangerously bad hangover the next morning. 

We left two hours and many cocktails later.  Of course, I was concerned Jenny would get home in one piece.  Just 7 months earlier, she had broken her jaw and this time, she would be going back to an empty apartment as she got rid of the boyfriend just after she got out of the hospital.  “I’ll be fine Zola,” she slurred.  “Leave me the fuck alone.  I’m going home.”

Once again, I cabbed it home from the Upper East Side and left Jenny Goode to her own devices.  I was relieved to see she hadn’t injured herself on the way home this time.  However, she had another piece of news for me.  “On the way home, I had to pee really bad.  I mean really, really badly.  I didn’t think I was going to make it up to my apartment so I squatted between two cars and I picked up this guy who started talking to me.”

“You did what,” I asked, semi shocked at first but then accepting because, after all, it is the Dumpling we’re talking about.

“He was so sweet.  He didn’t try to fuck me when we went upstairs to my place.  We just cuddled all night long,” she said.

“Are you going to see him again,” I asked.

“Oh my G-d yes.  He’s taking me dinner tonight.”

The Dumpling left to go run the floor and I sold and ran wine.  She had a grin on her face for the entire shift.  I could see she felt very positively about this new guy and hey, why not?  So they met while she urinated on an Upper East Side curb, blocked from view by a Buick and a Toyota, why couldn’t this be the real thing resulting in a strong, loving marriage?

We were both working the next night in the Café, the main part of the restaurant.  I was there at 3, prepping the bar for what I was hoping would be a very busy and lucrative shift.  The Dumpling came up from the office with my bank looking shocked and perplexed.

“So,” I asked, “how did it go last night.”

“The dinner at Uva was great but Alex, do you know there are people out there who want to be peed on?”

So much for the Dumplings latest life mate.


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