Above the bar, the paper sign yellowed with age read, “Reality is an illusion that occurs due to the lack of alcohol.” The quote is from the vaudeville comedian and actor, W.C. Fields. The bar, Specs’, is a well-known haunt in the North Beach part of town. It’s often associated with its beatnik neighbors across the street, City Lights Books and Vesuvio Cafe. Its walls, adorned with countless oddities and artifacts, seem representative of it’s geographical location in the city – a crossroads of sorts in the heart of the Italian neighborhood bordering Chinatown, the financial district, and the strip clubs on Broadway.
I had gone to Specs’ on a date – a date that probably could have used a little more alcohol and a little less reality. There were a few signs beforehand that indicated we might no be a match. She said she doesn’t care for children, she called herself a brat (and I don’t think she was being playfully self-deprecating), and she said she only drinks red wine in Italy, but quickly acknowledged that her statement may have sounded pretentious. I could ignore the wine thing, after all, I’m an IPA snob who is easily sold on a catchy name (Jancie Hoplin, Hoptimus Prime, Total Eclipse of the Hop, and Citra Ass Down). The other two statements felt like potential red flags. And by red flags, I simply mean red flags for me. It’s perfectly fine to dislike children – they’re not for everyone, and describing oneself as a brat can be healthy if attempts are being made to be less bratty or if there’s full-blown ownership and embracing of one’s brattiness (though the latter is definitely not my type).
The potential red flags, however, we easy enough to set aside. We had decent banter over texts beforehand and she was attractive – which, like a cleverly named IPA, seems to be about all I need to get me out of the house. I got to North Beach early so that I could swing by City Lights where I bought two books. I was also at the bar early. I’m habitually early, everywhere, all the time. I ordered a beer and looked at the stuff on the walls. I checked my phone and looked at the stuff on the walls. I listened to the boisterous group of guys sitting behind me, I watched as tourists came and went, I looked at the stuff on the walls. At Specs’, there’s a lot of stuff on the walls. She texted and said she was running about 5 minutes late. I said, “take your time.” I looked at the stuff on the walls.
At the bar, she ordered a vodka martini and when asked which vodka, she specified Belvedere. When the bartender said they don’t have Belvedere, but they have Grey Goose, she seemed repulsed and went with Kettle One. I don’t remember her exact phrasing, but she said to me in a lowered voice something that gave the impression that Grey Goose was swill, or beneath her. I’m not sure I would normally pick up on these things had they been one-off comments, but taken in sum, they were beginning to paint a picture of someone who might be a bit too fussy for me. When it came time to order another drink, she ordered the same thing and asked for a glass of water. The bartender pointed towards the end of the bar and said they have a water station (self-serve). She began to say, “can’t you just…” then changed over to mumbling something along the lines of, “oh I see that’s how it is.” She didn’t say it loudly enough for him to hear, and he had already moved on to serving the next customer, but I could see she was put out by this. She never got up to get herself the water.
Most of our conversation was about living in the city. We both love it. We both think it’s beautiful – though that proved to be another difference of opinion. She said she won’t go into Chinatown, it’s too crowded and dirty and there are dead animals hanging in the windows and people are sitting on the curbs. For the similar reasons, she won’t go to the Mission – too gritty. In talking about the buses, she said the 45 is the only one that is civilized. The fussiness (brattiness) was coming into view.
As time went on, the conversation became more of a policy debate over how to clean up the city which devolved into a debate over who should be arrested for which offenses. Unsurprisingly, I was on the side of leniency until we can apply justice more evenly (stop prosecuting poor people while letting rich people off the hook for the same offenses). If you’re outraged by the guy tweaking on the corner, you should be equally outraged by the bros doing coke in the bathroom. I don’t condone the drug use or violence on our streets, but I want us to put as much, if not more, resources into stopping the economic violence that ruins thousands of lives (economic crash of 2008) as we do in to hiring cops to be “tough on crime.” Not getting anywhere in these conversations, and not really connecting, she ordered a car, I paid for our drinks, and we said goodbye when her Uber/Lyft arrived.
For much of my walk home, I replayed our conversation. I tried to figure out if there was some missed middle ground, some missed opportunity. I questioned if I’ve become much less flexible in my thinking. I tried to gain clarity on my particular political stances, which I didn’t feel I had articulated very well.
I waited a day before writing to her:
“Hey there and happy Monday! In keeping with my promise of not ghosting and trying to do better in this online dating space – thank you for meeting up last night and for the spirited convo. I don’t think we align enough to be pursuing that relationship brass ring, but I’d always be up for grabbing “snacks” and unwinding at a local spot just to shoot the shit as neighbors and friends might do. You gave me different perspectives to consider – which I always value – thank you for that as well. Hope you’re having a good day that isn’t too full of annoying work stuff.”
I had put snacks in quotes because it was an inside joke about grabbing drinks and I referenced work stuff because she had mentioned in a different text not liking annoying work stuff.
I didn’t hear from her for a few days, and I didn’t expect to. Then, when she responded, she called my “sorry we didn’t match” text condescending, and gave unsolicited advice on how to make a woman feel special on a date. She criticized me by saying I didn’t stand up and greet her like a gentleman. Though I’m pretty sure I stood up and we might have even done that friendly and slightly awkward “nice to meet you” hug thing.
In my reply, I said I was sorry that she mistook my sincerity (we’re not a match but happy to stay connected) for condescension. I thanked her for the advice and gave my own piece of advice in the form of Andrea Gibson’s poem, “Wellness Check.” My not so subtle suggestion was to focus on what you’re putting out into the world as opposed to what you’re not receiving. I clarified my expectations of a first date – which is to not put on a show or to try to make the other person “feel special” but to see if we have enough natural chemistry (in being ourselves) to eventually get to that point. I stopped short of suggesting that her need for a guy she’s never met to make her feel special or validated, is precisely why I don’t think we’re a match.
The truth is, I’m not a formal guy. I don’t do fancy or formal first dates. I believe in, and follow, societal norms: I pick up the tab, I put my phone away, I hold doors. I try to always be considerate, respectful, and authentic. Sometimes I’m funny. Some might suggest that these things aren’t enough. Some might suggest that in being as casual as I am, I’m not putting in adequate effort. To that, I can only say that I exhibit the level of comfort that I wish to receive. I want well worn jeans, not stiff and uncomfortable ones that may look good but feel like shit. I tend to think that the “traditional” approach (in which the guy is expected to show a lot of effort and interest up front) runs the risk of setting up a chase/be chased dynamic. I prefer mutual enthusiasm, mutual chasing, or running together. To be clear, I’m not opposed to making a person feel special (we should all strive for that in our relationships), but a first date is not a relationship and the best ones feel effortless. Moreover, I think making each other feel special comes naturally and, hopefully, grows over time.
After I sent my initial text ,the one copied above that was deemed condescending, I went about my life. On Tuesday, I saw Rebirth Brass Band play a Mardi Gras show in the Mission (which she also attended and either didn’t see me or saw me and avoided making eye contact). On Wednesday, I had dinner with a friend. On Thursday, I saw a fantastic rock and/or roll show that blew me away. Each of those nights, I walked to the engagement, and on two of them, I walked home. My walk home usually involves walking on Fillmore St., which, as I head towards my neighborhood, has one of the many spectacular views of the Bay and the bridge, and the lights across the Bay.
Yet, by Thursday night (which was before I got her response), I was thinking to myself, “it shouldn’t be this hard” and “aren’t there any normal people out there – people who just roll with it and try to live life without pretense or overwrought expectations?”
Inevitably, after a nonstarter or disappointing date, I work through two or three emotional responses. One response is to think of it as a failure and a type of rejection (even if I’m the one doing the rejecting). I’m getting better at re-framing this. I’m getting better at seeing it not as a failure, but instead as a way of quickly figuring out what doesn’t work – which, in turn, allows me to bring clarity and refocus on what has worked or what I think will work. Taken in a very matter-of-fact way, being able to say, “this isn’t for me” isn’t a failure and it isn’t a personal rejection. A second response is to give up. I enjoy doing too many other things to be bothered with this nonsense. I went to shows, had a nice dinner, had phenomenal walks, and enjoyed the city. Life, in many respects, is good – why ruin it by trying to impress someone who isn’t a good fit?
The third response, and the more complicated response, is to look for clues from past connections to see if I can understand why they worked and others didn’t. This is where I was on Wednesday and Thursday night on my walks home under clear and starry skies. The commonalities in those past connections seem to be fun, funny, and flirtatious conversation beforehand; laughter and the ability to converse on a wide range of topics in the moment; an effortless sharing of personal history; a physical connection; and alcohol (which probably helped with those last three). Aside from the commonalities, I often find a new appreciation for those connections – the resigned sigh that says, that was nice. Those instances often strike me as rare gifts that, in hindsight and assuming both people were being honest with each other, seem like they would have been far easier to maintain or repair, than following this current path. In all of those relationships, the connection itself is what felt special – nothing felt forced or performative. In the best of them, they grew into minor competitions in generosity.
That third response is what keeps me mildly interested in this somewhat silly pursuit. It keeps me grounded and confident in knowing what’s possible. Everything else, the shows, the views, the friends, and my life in the city is what keeps me patient. As for reality and illusion, I’m still trying to figure that out – with or without the alcohol.