Heckled On A First Date

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• January 6, 2024

I picked the place. A charming little craft beer and cocktail place on the Upper East Side. I’d never been but I have a knack for finding cool places to drink or dine, a combination of being a native New Yorker, using reviews, and knowing what I like.

This was a first date. We had matched on Hinge and gotten to messaging and while you have to be careful (well, women especially have to be careful), he seemed like he might be the type of weird to match my weird. He did say the last time he was with a girl like me, she got him into a bit of trouble. I cautioned him, “you have never met anyone like me.” I don’t know if that’s a brag or not. In fact, I’m not the one who says it. Pretty much everyone does. Especially people who are older and been around longer. I’ve always been told I’m strange.

Anyway. I’m early to the bar. I’m pleased with my pick and order a fruited sour beer. It’s of a pomegranate color and flavor. Dangerously delicious. No dry January for me. A group of four guys come in. None of them are my date. The ring leader of the group who I will call Brazil (I later found out he is originally from Brazil, more on this later) comes right up to me and goes, “every year, am I right?”

Stunned with confusion, I nod and give a little smirk. What? That doesn’t make any sense. One of the other dudes pulls out a stool next to mine, but Brazil makes his crew all move down one so he can sit next to me.

Uh oh. Soon, this guy will learn I am not here alone. I’m relieved to not be here alone. Brazil announces that he his buying a whole round for the entire bar… because his company is paying for it.

Now, my date arrives. It’s always awkward meeting an online date for the first time. Do you shake hands? Hug? How do I greet this person. It’s apparent we’re both on the introverted side immediately, as we awkwardly say hello. We do some standard introductions. How are you? What are you drinking? Etc, etc.

We were talking less than five minutes when Brazil tells my date that he’s buying. Because his company is paying for it. My date asks what he does. He says he’s a stock broker and shows us a picture of his desk on his phone.

“Three monitors,” my date says, “cool.”

Insulted, Brazil exclaims, “I have FOUR monitors.” He then goes into this soliloquy about how he’s from Brazil, and Brazilians are very generous, more than Americans and happier (I don’t disagree), and how much he loves his life, and how much money he has, and how much money he’s going to have when he retires in ten years. He’s extremely animated like a cartoon character. My date and I nod and laugh. I’m going to need another drink for this. The Brazilian gets me another.

At some point, I’m able to about face and look at my date and continue to try to get to know this young man besides what little I already do. However, it’s not long until Brazil asks us where we’re from. I was about to ask my date the same. We give Brazil our origin information, and suddenly, (he was not sober) Brazil realizes we are on not just a date, but a first date.

This really tickles him. He is super stoked for us. He goes, “you are a good looking man, and she is beautiful. You have to take her to an expensive restaurant. Look at her. You need to take her to a fancy restaurant and then to a really nice hotel. Have you kissed yet?”

“No. We literally just met in real life right now.”

He grabs my date, “she is beautiful. You have to put your hands on her face and kiss her. Right now. Right now, you must kiss her. Look at her!”

I’m more entertained than annoyed, somewhat flattered, a little concerned, but when something is funny, I’m here for it. We both contest that we’d rather not a first kiss be at the instruction of a stranger in front of people at the bar.

“It’s got to be organic,” I tell him. Brazil’s eyes are nearly popping out of his head. Most of what my date and I learned about each other was through him interviewing us.

“You know, I’m in love,” he says. Then again, he pulls out his phone and shows us pictures of him and his girlfriend skiing, which they did over New Year’s weekend. “I love her,” then again louder, “I LOVE HER.”

“That’s great,” I say, “it’s great to be in love.”

“Are you going to marry her?” My date asks.

“YES!”

“Are we invited to the wedding?” I ask him.

“YES!”

We all connect on Instagram. You know. So we can go to this guys wedding. Totally normal. He buys more drinks. Don’t worry, his company is paying for it.

“Where you have three monitors,” my date jokes.

“FOUR!” He insists and shows us again. Followed by showing us pictures we already saw of his girlfriend who he is really in love with.

He then mocks his “friends” (who we later find out just met him that night) who were hitting on these women because he said they weren’t good looking enough for the women they were hitting on. He told us, in his wisdom, that being good looking is very important. He reiterates that my date is handsome and I am very, very beautiful. He wants us to kiss so badly.

He tells us he’s 43, turning 44 and even pulls out his license to prove to me he’s telling the truth. I truly do not care either way. The conversation quickly goes to drugs. I’m unsure how. He tells us he does coke every three days. I tell him I’m more of psychedelic user. His coke dealer was with him, he whispered to me. There is a strip club around the corner, and he’s going there with his coke, where he’ll get a private room. He invites us. Actually. He insists we come. Promising to pay for everything.

“I don’t know I’m dressed properly,” I jest, “I’m wearing a Misfits t-shirt.”

“That’s OKAY.”

My date and I consider. But he works in medicine and has to be up early. I actually have to finish work when I get home, since I work in radio and get late night emails. And while I’m not someone who cares for strip clubs, I love a good story. If it wasn’t midweek, we’d probably be in a private room with Brazil and within an hour I’d be doing coke of a strippers boobs and making out with her. Similar circumstances have happened before. Things get weird if you make it to your mid-thirties and you’re single in NYC.

Brazil doesn’t finish his drink. He squares up his tab (which was probably a lot considering all the people he was buying for) and when I say he literally runs out the door to the strip club, I mean he literally RAN out the door to the strip club.

“I really feel like we’re making a mistake not going with him right now,” I admit to my date.

He agrees, “maybe another time. You think he’ll remember us?”

“No shot.”

So my date and I were left with a little private time to get to know each other further, but mostly we just laughed about Brazil.

“Should we invite him to the second date?”

I can’t speak for my date, but I’m going to miss four monitors, in love but also addicted to coke and strip clubs, Brazil.