Part II: The L train doesn't only lead to Hipsterville

And so follows Part II...

Let me continue to paint you this bizarre picture: we (aforementioned male specimen and I) are on the platform at the Bedford Street stop in Williamsburg, gaggles of buzzed and drunken hipsters in skintight black jeans, oversized cooler-than-Rayban sunglasses, gobs of black eyeliner and awesome retro jean jackets surround us, and we continue to argue back and forth. I want to go home. Again, he asks me to go back with him. "I promise, nothing will happen," he says, and sounds truly genuine when he says it. When the kind asking doesn't work (I can be pretty stubborn), he reverts to frustrated anger, "What's wrong with me? I bet you've gone home with guys before. You don't like me. Why don't you like me? You said you would; what did I do that now you say no?" It retrospect it is wholly manipulative, but I stood there on the platform and attempted to reason with him: I was tired. Maybe I had, maybe I hadn't gone home with people before, but why did that matter? This was now, and I was respecting my sentiments at a given moment (ok, ok, maybe it wasn't quite so eloquent. Maybe I overused the word "like" and blamed it a little more on being tired and wanting to sleep than I'd like to admit, but I certainly did explain the whole this-is-my-decision-and-it-doesn't-matter-what-I've-done-in-the-past thing). When angry manipulation wasn't working, he turned to pathetic self-deprication and sadness. And that is what got me.

Warning: minor amounts of emo-talk to come. Prep yourself slightly. Here we go: I have spent so long building up walls of defense and protection, that part of my "thing" when coming to New York and trying out OkCupid was to let some of that fall by the wayside and open myself up to potentials and possibilities. Instead of preemptively acting defensively, my goal was to go with the flow and to give people a genuine chance. Which is why - when Unnamed Creepshow pulled the sad/self-depricating card - I think I caved. The Manhattan-bound L train approached. He made piercing eye contact with swarthy Mediterranean eyes. People unloaded. Commuters loaded. I stayed where I was. The doors closed. I guess I'm going deeper into Brooklyn.

Now, in my mind the L train stops at Bedford Street. The L train is what you take to Hipsterville. So when he said he lived several stops off the L train, I just figured it was in pseudo-Hipsterville. Was I ever wrong. From the Bedford Street stop, it was about another 20 or 25 minutes to his stop (Walker Street). At this point, the train is above-ground, and we walked out of the station to find old school drug dealer Cadillacs, dark, unkempt streets and nothing save for a window selling some manner of late-night food. Put it this way: I'm a tough cookie, I walked in Zambia in the dark alone (sorry mom, I wasn't going to tell you that) and I would NOT have felt comfortable strolling these streets by myself.

We walked about a block or two to his apartment. The narrow stairs up to the second floor of a split level were dirty but not dilapidated, and truthfully it was too dark to see anything in particular. We enter his house and me - needing to "pee like a racehorse" - made a beeline for the bathroom. Wrong move. Not only was slightly dirty, but it was downright nasty. The green corrosion in the bathtub from old, unclean water trailed a third of the way up the tub. The dirt and crud encrusted around the faucet and sink made me gag. I wanted to go home. I hadn't seen the worst of it.

I tentatively peered my head out and questioningly called his name. The apartment smelled like stale weed. Granted, he had told me his roommate was Jamaican, but that's no reason for an apartment to smell like a smokehouse. Following the sound of his voice, I found him in his bedroom. Now, I've seen dirty rooms before. I went to college, I have two older brothers, I've been in boys' bedrooms; I know what messy boy's room looks like. This my friends, was above and beyond. There were rumpled clothes on EVERY. SINGLE. SURFACE. Tossed there and left to gather dust. The room was completely undecorated save for one poster with rolling and frayed edges. In the corner of the large room was a massive old wooden cabinet. The kind that was actually quite beautiful and would likely sell for a lot (it reminded me of heavy wooden doors in Zanzibar), but that was definitely a hand-me-down from the previous owner, too lazy to take it when he or she moved out. There was no headboard, no box-spring, no bed-frame, just a mattress on the floor, sheets crumpled in the corner. One desk chair rolling in the corner was in fine condition. the second was missing part of the back. A large computer screen rested on an Ikea desk that had seen better days. The mouse was on the floor near the mattress. A Kleenex box was nearby. I tried really hard not to think about it.

Now, where was that tea he promised? He ran off to make it, and as I sat there momentarily, trying to finagle my way out of the situation as quickly as possible, I realized that I should definitely not let him make me my drink without me there. I went into the kitchen and sure enough he was making us tea, but he had put three teabags in a crusty, stained coffee maker and was letting the hot water drip through. I let it go - I'm sure I've imbibed grosser things. When he finally handed me the tea (he had made himself some too) I took a sip and found it sickeningly, unbearably sweet. "What is that??" I asked.  "Oh, it's sugar," he replied, "It's sweetener. Don't worry, I'm helping you watch your figure." Really, dude? Go f%*! yourself. I didn't ask you to do anything of the sort. I swallowed down the overly metallic concoction as quickly as possible, while he tried to get all psychoanalytical on me again.

White spittle that had slowly been forming at the corners of his mouth throughout the night had finally hardened into a pale yellow crust. My tea was finished. "I'm going home," I announced. "I want to go home." "Won't you stay? I just want you to stay. I promise I won't touch you, just please stay." Really? He was going that route again? At this point I wasn't having it. "I'm going home. Thank you, but no."

He was kind enough to walk me to the station. He came in and waited with me until the train came. And when it did, do you want to know what he said? "Can I come with you?" I wanted to scream, NO YOU CANNOT COME WITH ME YOU PSYCHO! But instead I said, "No, I'm sorry, you can't." I don't think I've ever been that happy to board a train in my life.

What about the fallout? Oh that's a whole other story. Just you wait for Part III...

Part I: Does your worst date beat this?

Most of my closest friends have heard this story in detail, but up until now I've refrained from posting it it up here. Although it occurred almost three months ago, the reasoning behind my hesitation to post is equally divided between the fact that it is a hefty, circuitous story to write and that as much as it is above and beyond what you can imagine for the worst date story possible, there are also elements that (I feel) reflect poorly on me, my judgement and my decisions made. But when all is said and done, if a blog isn't a space where you can admit your shortcomings and share ridiculous, hilarious, horrifying stories, then where else is? Plus, I share it as a forewarning to others...

So as you all know, I joined OkCupid to meet some interesting, handsome fellows in NYC. However, my good friends Tim and Lexa convinced me to join when I was here over New Years, prior to taking my MCATs and about a month before I actually moved to the city. While it proved to be a thoroughly entertaining mode of procrastination when studying (Facebook ain't got nothin' on OkC in that regard), I made what I later learned was the worst decision you can make on OkC - I had ongoing conversations with people. Doesn't sound TOO bad, right? But when you think about it, people can create very particular personae on the internet, they can become whomever they want to become. And while I knew this instinctively, I misjudged my ability to discern between the good eggs and the bad apples.

I was chatting with a guy who shall remain unnamed, and I'd be lying if I said that I wasn't attached at all. I mean, I was cognizant of all the potential weirdness-in-person, but it was nice to have someone to come home and gchat with at the end of the night; I enjoyed having someone to think about when I felt like there were no options in Montreal. So, upon my arrival to NYC, we decided to hang out. I got here on a Monday and waited until I got a little settled, started my internship, moved into my place, and bid Momma Viv adieu before setting a date on Friday night. Apparently a first OkC date on a weekend is a big no-no - you can't use work as an excuse to get up early the next morning, and you might be committing yourself for a full night. Again, news to me.

Anyways, getting to the story (and I promise, I'm going to try to make this as concise as possible, because we all know how I can blab), we decided to meet in Williamsburg since he lives far out in Brooklyn. I texted him as I said I would, just as I was getting on the subway. No response, but I was underground without service, so I didn't think anything of it. I get there 20 minutes later, text again asking where he was, and he was like, "Umm, I'm at home, why?" He didn't realize that I was leaving. Great start to a date. So I wandered around Bedford Street alone for about 30 minutes on a popping Friday night, then hung out next to a bodega right near the subway stop. He got off the subway and texted that he had arrived, and as I looked around slightly-eagerly-but-trying-to-play-it-cool, I spotted him walking towards me. We made eye contact. He gave the hint of the lip curl of a smile. Then he blew right by me and walked into the bodega. Um, what?

I went inside and was like, "[Name]? Hi!" and gave him a hug. His accent was thick, so thick I had trouble understanding him. And people were around. And he wasn't talking much. So I was like, "I'll wait outside while you pay." He came outside and we walked to the dive bar across the street. He kept on shooting me these attempting-to-be-sly, pseudo-cutesy, totally creepy side glances and smiles. We got some drinks and sat at a booth in the middle of the bar, right next to the coatcheck (note detail for later). I got it out of him that he had smoked a joint and perhaps had imbibed a few beverages prior to meeting (he claimed it was because he was so nervous. I'm not sure about that) and his genuine reason for being late was because he fell asleep. I know. Warning signs already.

So we get a few drinks and conversations begins to flow a little more easily (or the snippets of conversation that I can understand). He gets a little cuter. Whether that's because of the vodka tonics or spending time actually talking, I'm not sure. Now, I should throw in a little preface here to clarify a few things; one of my co-intern friends said a great quote the other night. He stated, "I've had plenty of lovers, but not many boyfriends." I feel like I'm in the same boat. It takes me a lot to get close to guys romantically; I usually keep my guard up pretty high. So part of my New York goal is to let that down and genuinely give people a chance, even if that means getting a little hurt. Well, tonight was the wrong night to test out that goal.

He went to get us another drink and this time sat down on my side of the booth. He begins holding my hand, playing with my fingers. Meh, not really feeling it but I go along with it. Then puts one arm around my shoulders, proceeds to finish his drink, and places his remaining hand on my stomach. I'm not even this intimate in public with people I'm dating, never mind a sketchy guy on the first date! I giggle, brush it off. The feminist in me is seething. The naive girl in me is wondering if this is how all OkCupid dates proceed (WARNING! It is most certainly NOT!). He leans in with that same wannabe-cheeky, totally stalker-creepy smile and tries to kiss me. I dodge it. Or quickly start talking about something else. I can tell that he's trying to make deep, intimate eye contact, so I only heighten my effervescent conversation, never allowing him the satisfaction of stilling me with his gaze. He tries again. Will this guy give up? In my twisted, slightly intoxicated state I think to myself, "Well, bonus points for persistence, maybe? May as well give it a shot. He's probably not the most awful guy I've ever made out with," [in retrospect, I might have been wrong, but that's coming later]. Despite all that, not a great kisser; kind of couldn't get into it. And THEN I see a huge flash - some Williamsburg-hipser-chick has just snapped a picture of us (Instagram, obviously) mid-smooch, with my hair awry and my eyes probably rolling back in my head. I flip a shit. I spaz at her (what the hell is she doing taking close-up photos of random people in bars?), insist she delete the photo, grab my coat, and storm outside.

The unnamed man follows me, begging me to stay when I say I want to go home, promising that we will just drink tea and talk, apologizing profusely for making me feel uncomfortable and pushing me to do things I wasn't comfortable with. Can't we just hang out a bit longer?

No, no we can't, I assert. I'm going home. I'm going down to the subway. Of course, the Williamsburg L stop is perhaps the one place in New York City where there is only one platform for a train going in either direction. My home lies toward the Manhattan-bound direction. His? The other end of the line. I wish I could say this story stops here, yet it only gets much, much worse. The other half - aka Worst Date Part 2 - is coming shortly...