thenewarkdiaries-blog

[thenewarkdiaries-blog]

This seriously seems like something that would happen to me.

[thenewarkdiaries-blog]

Touchy Feely

Picture it: Newark, New Jersey. 2017.

Setting: At the door at a club in Newark, waiting for the bouncer to wave me through.

Since moving to Newark, I’ve made a concerted effort to have a personal life. Before, when living in New York, my sole focus was finishing school. So, with coursework in my rearview, I’ve been trying my best to bust out of my very prolonged awkward phase and make new friends. Perhaps even find my first-ever beau. 

My first weekend in Newark, not knowing a soul in the city, I decided to venture out to a local alleged hotspot in search of camaraderie. 

As I wait in line, I notice a man in his late 20s is working the door. He looks as though he has been sleeping rough, but I don’t make much of it, figuring that homeless-chic is just the Newark aesthetic, much like how it’s sometimes impossible to tell the difference between a millennial hipster artist in Brooklyn from someone who is sans-domicile. I notice that everyone in line in front of me is either a man or a couple; there are no other solo women and I find myself nervous that I’ll either sit alone at the bar all night or someone will try to take advantage of my aloneness to nefarious ends. I let my thoughts wander and don’t pay much attention to what is happening ahead of me.

When its my turn to enter, I walk up to the man and ask what the cover is. He states that you pay $10 to the man inside, and insists he has to pat me down to make sure I’m not concealing a weapon. Not having been to very many clubs, I assume that this is standard procedure. The man quickly feels up my naked legs and around the hem of my dress. He then moves up to my waist and briefly hovers over my breasts before squeezing them very roughly. I push him off, asking what the hell his problem is. He smiles and tells me that he was just being thoroughly. I scowl and push past him, heading inside to pay the cover and then to take a seat at the bar.

I guess that I had a certain kind of look on my face because when the bartender notices me, instead of asking me what I’d like to drink he asks if I’m okay. He has a southern drawl and calls me darlin’. While he is very attractive, I notice that he looks every bit as shabbily dressed as the man outside at the door and I’m immediately turned off by the sheer visual association of it all. I figure my initial hunch about homeless-chic being the aesthetic of choice in the area is correct.

I’m wrong.

This is a recurring theme.

I look up at the bartender and muster a half smile. I tell him that I’m just a little upset that the man working the door had been so handsy and lament that he seemed to be taking advantage of his position of power over who gets in and who does not. The bartender knits his eyebrows. A couple next to me chirp in, stating that the man at the door had also been a bit too friendly with the woman, though her boyfriend had stopped him before she had been groped. The bartender is momentarily stunned, looking as though he doesn’t quite understand what he’s been told.

He shakes his head and says, slowly, that the club does not employ a doorman. There’s a man inside who collect the cover charge, but no man standing outside to check patrons before they enter. 

My jaw, and the jaws of the couple next to me, hit proverbial floor. The bartender then calls over another employee. He relates our stories and the second employee shakes his head and curses. He states that the perpetrator is a local homeless man and he does this often. He laughs and says that at least this time he didn’t also try to collect the cover charge. The woman next to me and I exchange stunned, disgusted looks. The second employee leaves to shoo away the homeless man. I ask if they’re going to call the cops, but he shrugs and says no. It’s not as though he stole any money this time.

The bartender offers me and the couple next to me a free drink for our troubles, but I simply shake my head and say that I think I’m just going to go home.

Outcome: got groped, didn’t get any drinks, realized that was sadly the furthest a man has ever gotten with me, still vaguely traumatized.

[thenewarkdiaries-blog]

Fried Fish Fake Out

Picture it: East Newark, New Jersey. 2017.

Setting: A soul food restaurant, placing a to-go order.

Anyone who knows me knows that while I can absolutely cook, and can cook relatively well, I truly hate to do it. I hate having messy hands, the feeling of raw ingredients, and how long it takes to go from the things that make food to food. While I try my very best to cook Mondays through Thursdays, on weekends and holidays all bets are off... unless I’m making some delicious break-and-bake cookies, my oven doesn’t go on from Friday until Monday when it’s time to make dinner.

All this is to say, that when I found myself desiring dinner one recent Saturday night, I was faced with a decision. 

I could drive to Jersey City and fight for a free parking space (only chumps pay to park for less than 3 hours, dagnabit) to eat at random restaurant but afterwards get the Krispy Kreme donut that I had been desperately craving for weeks.

I could go to the diner and face the prospect of running into that Russian waiter that I have been avoiding like the plague since he so swiftly curbed me (see “From Russia with Zero Love”).

Or I could try the soul food place that is a ways down the street.

Being a somewhat responsible (read: lazy) adult, as well as kind of a wuss, I chose the latter. 

As I walk up the street from the parking lot to the restaurant, I notice there is a woman staring at me. I immediately clock that she’s sans domicile and feel incredibly guilty. I’ve chosen to pay someone to cook for me out of sheer laziness, but this woman can’t afford a meal, much less a home. As I look closer, it becomes rather apparent that she’s an addict of some sort. My guilt sky rockets. I walk into the restaurant and the woman follows me inside. I stand inside the cramped space-- there is only room enough for 2 tables on each side of the space and smattering of chairs that are all filled with other patrons waiting for their food-- and I wait my turn to place my order. As I do so, I hear a small, frail voice asking the other patrons if they have any money to spare.

My heart breaks. I turn and tell the woman that while I don’t have any cash (I never do because going to the bank is a massive undertaking, with the only “local” branch of my particular bank being over an hour’s drive) I’d be happy to buy her something to eat. The woman lights up. She requests a rather paltry meal and when I ask if she’s sure she wouldn’t want more, she requests a couple of cold drinks. I happily oblige. 

After placing my order, I turn to the woman and explain that it’s going to be about 20 minutes, so I was going to run an errand across the street but that I’d be right back. She says that she will wait there for me and thanks me for the kindness I’ve shown her. I smile and repeat that I’d be right back. I assumed that this would be the end of the story. I would do something nice, but anonymous, for a woman in a difficult situation and would go home and enjoy my fried fish dinner. 

I’m wrong.

This is a recurring theme.

As I exit the restaurant, a man who had been standing behind me in line juts out his arm to open the door for me. I turn to thank him and am immediately caught off guard by his beautiful honey colored eyes. Though this man is not my usual type, his eyes have me hypnotized. He tells me that what I am doing for the woman is very nice. I blow his compliment off. Frankly, I’m embarrassed anyone noticed as I sure as hell didn’t buy her dinner for any attention. He reiterates that it was a nice gesture. I smile and shrug. He smiles back, his dazzlingly perfect teeth catching the light of the street lamps hanging overhead. I smile again and head towards my next destination, a pharmacy. The man falls in step beside me, clearly headed to the same place. As we walk, he starts trying to make small talk.

He asks why I just didn’t give her money. I explain that I don’t carry cash. He states that he assumed it was because I knew giving her money would be futile as she’d just spend it on booze or drugs. I’m immediately put off. The gall of some people.

I tell that man that his way of thinking is reductive at best, and certainly cruel any way you look at it. I tell him that no one except the woman knows what brought her to her current state and that millions of every day people are a paycheck away from financial ruin. I tell him that I genuinely think we ought to treat people the way that we would like to be treated in a similar circumstance. I look down on the man from my high horse with disdain. 

The man chuckles and calls me naive. He says that the woman is a known crack addict and that she fleeces poor bleeding hearts like myself every single day. He tells me that she isn’t homeless at all, that she lives down the street in a house with some other local addicts. He tells me that I’m stupid if I can’t see that I’ve been had.

I stare at him incredulously for a moment and then shake my head. I tell him he’s a bad person and walk into the pharmacy to get the items that I need. As I walk back to the restaurant a few minutes later, I’m still bothered by everything the man said. I wonder how someone could be so cynical. I hope that I never get to be that way.

I walk back into the restaurant and look around for the woman, quickly realizing that she isn’t there. I exit and look around outside to see if I can spot her. She’s nowhere to be found. I hear my name being called at the counter and explain to the cashier that part of the order was actually for the homeless woman who had just been in. 

The cashier shakes her head. She explains that the woman is a local crack addict and that she knows she’s not allowed inside the restaurant. The cashier had let it slide today because I had already said I’d buy her food before she got a chance to kick her out. The cashier then says that the woman does this to patrons all the time-- she gets people to buy her food and then decides that she doesn’t want to wait for it and leaves. Often, she does it multiple times a day and I’m the third that day. I’m shocked by this news. Behind me, I hear the man laughing. He tauntingly says that he told me so. Crestfallen, I ask the cashier if she’ll hold the woman’s food for her, should she decide to come back for it. She agrees and I gather my portion of the order and leave.

Outcome: Likely wasted $15

[thenewarkdiaries-blog]

The Oculus

Picture it: New York City. 2017.

Setting: Outside The Oculus, headed towards the PATH train to Dirty Jersey.

Like any self-respecting New Yorker (I was born there, spent my early childhood there, and lived there for quite a while as an adult before being lured to New Jersey... so despite not having grown up in the 5 boroughs I feel I can rightly lay claim to this identifier), I avoid certain areas like the plague. 

The Bowling Green Bull? Nah.

The High Line on the weekend? Would rather die.

The Statue of Liberty tour? Y’all know the ferry goes RIGHT by there, right?

Times Square... ever? You can screw right off with that nonsense.

In addition to these universal “Hard No” locations, every New Yorker has a personal list of places/things they just won’t deal with. My personal list includes never, ever riding an MTA bus, steering clear of Magnolia Bakery no matter how much my friends insist we get cupcakes from there (it’s just so overrated), and avoiding the 9/11 Memorial at all costs. Though most of the things on my “Hard No List” are somewhat frivolous and born of my own hang ups and general cantankerousness, my issue with stepping foot near the last place on my list is rather nuanced. 

I strongly feel that the place where the Twin Towers once stood is hallowed ground. People, lots and lots of people, lost their lives there. On the morning of September 11th thousands of people-- good people at work, or who had caught a flight to some place or another-- perished in a truly terrifying, horrific, and unimaginable way. On top of that, people trying to help others escape lost their lives. It ought to be a place of solemnity and reflection. It ought to be a place where people come together to learn about and practice tolerance and love. 

It shouldn’t be a place where vendors sell grossly overpriced tee shirts and tourists take smiling, thumbs up selfies. 

It shouldn’t be a place where a literal mall masquerading as a transit hub sits feet away and caters to the ridiculously rich/relatively tacky (real talk- who exactly is buying an extremely expensive, luxury watch or purse 30 feet away from the PATH train? Who are these people, exactly? What are their lives like that they can’t go to a store not in a train station or order stuff online?).

In short, I avoid the 9/11 Memorial because I find the commercialization and tourist attraction-ification of the whole area to be absolutely disgusting. 

So, you can imagine my chagrin when the cab I had taken from one of the museums further uptown dropped me off on the West Side Highway rather than Church Street when I requested a ride to the PATH station. Being a 90 degree and high humidity day, walking in anything other than a direct route from the cab to the train was simply out of the question... which meant I was faced with the unenviable task of walking through the entire 9/11 Memorial site in the height of tourist season. 

I’m non-plussed (and not in the American sense) by the situation, but trudge along, ducking tourists and selfie sticks from all directions. 

I make it to the turn towards Vessey Street and, looking down to check the time on my phone, run smack into a truly gorgeous man in a suit. I’m left breathless, partly because he had knocked the air from me but also partly because his beauty left me unable to think enough to breathe. In those brief moments between contact and when my wits returned, I pictured a life with this man. We got married and had a kid and moved to a lovely working farm upstate where we made our own cider and hosted Halloween hayrides for the locals. 

When I came back to Earth, I manage to look up at the man and give a shy half-smile. I mumble an apology and he asks if I’m okay. I say that I am and smile more broadly, thinking to myself that this is the adorable story I’ll someday tell our grandkids when they ask how we met. The man in the suit smiles back and asks where I was going in such a hurry. I reply that I was headed to catch a train and apologize, as I had clearly interrupted his return to work following his lunch break. The man replies that he had a meeting, but it’s now over and tells me his name, asking mine in the process. I tell him. We both chuckle and smile. I’m fairly certain I already love him as he asks me if I’d like to get a drink. It’s a bit early for booze, so I suggest a coffee shop nearby. He agrees. He says that he just needs to do something first. I look at him inquisitively. He lifts his arm to show me that he had been carrying something that I hadn’t noticed. 

It’s a selfie stick. 

I blink a few times in confusion. The man says that he came to New York for a few meetings and has always wanted to see the 9/11 Memorial. He says that he had just purchased the selfie stick and was incredibly excited to test it out. He says that he thinks the area was dope and asks if I’d been there or to the Oculus before. He then states that he wanted to go shopping there too, if I had the time. 

My face contorts in confusion. I’ve never been any good at hiding my disdain.

The man smiles again and asks if the coffee shop takes Euros, but then thinks twice of it and says that I should probably just pay because he wants to be sure that he has enough money on hand to buy some I <3 NY shirts and such. He also says that I could buy him a slice of real New York pizza.

I hurriedly look down at my phone. I tell the man that I really can’t miss my train and that I should be going. I brush past him and continue on my way to the PATH train, detouring to the coffee shop down the street to get an iced tea to go.

Outcome: paid for my own drink, didn’t get hoodwinked into doing touristy nonsense or buying food for a strange man.

[thenewarkdiaries-blog]

Blind Date

Picture it: Newark, New Jersey. 2017.

Setting: a lovely outdoor restaurant with live music with my neighbor/friend, J, awaiting the arrival of the blind date she has set up for me.

I’ve never been much for blind dates. I find the prospect of someone coming to meet me, sight unseen, absolutely terrifying. What if I don’t fit their ideal of physical beauty?

Somewhat more importantly, what if I think they’re busted?

But, at the behest of J, I agree to give it a shot in order to hone my people skills. After all, I really do need to learn to have a somewhat successful interaction with a man at some point in my life.

J and I eat dinner and listen to the (laughably bad) live singer’s sets. My date is late and this does not bode well for my ability to like him. I’m not the type of woman who waits for anything, let alone a stranger. Sometime after dinner and two post-dinner coffees, the man arrives. 

I immediately register that I’m not attracted to him, but resolve to give things a chance. Again, I’m there to practice my people skills, not find a man to marry and ride off into the sunset with.

The man is somehow more awkward that I am. He doesn’t make any eye contact, he has his arms folded over his chest and is hugging himself. He barely asks me any questions, and when he does they are simply to turn my questions around on me (ex: when I asked what he liked do in his spare time, he answered and asked what I liked to do). My ability to carry the one-sided interaction is fading fast, so I ask the man what he likes to read, assuming that I could at least talk about whatever book it is for another 5 minutes and then gracefully make my exit.

I was wrong.

This is a recurring theme.

He answers that he hadn’t really read since middle school until recently. Now, he was VERY into reading about terrorists.

Da. Fuq? 

My eyebrows shoot into my hairline. I kick J under the table several times, indicating that this is OVER and I want to go home. She suggests that we walk to a nearby diner for dessert. 

I’m non-plussed (and not in the American sense) because everyone knows you don’t go with a weirdo to a second location. 

Still, we walk with the man to the diner and the conversation is just as stilted and awkward as it was at the restaurant. Once there, while waiting for our to-go desserts, I make a last ditch attempt to find some kind of connection with this man, if for no other reason than maybe he’ll be less likely follow me home and kill me. So, I ask him his top 5 favorite movies. 

He tells me that ALL of the Fast and Furious movies are his number one.

At that point, I bid him adieu. He was clearly beyond all hope.

Outcome: Paid for my own drink and dessert, didn’t get murdered, ate a stale piece of cake at home, will definitely see this man on 20/20 at some point.

[thenewarkdiaries-blog]

Tinder Fail

Picture it: Newark, New Jersey. 2017.

Setting: Tinder.

I am NOT an online dating person. On top of being painfully shy and rather awkward, I’m pretty thin-skinned and I get genuinely, very upset when people are mean to me. I know that the world is a mean place, but I’m of the belief that you shouldn’t do things that you know will lead to unhappiness (revolutionary thinking, I know...). Truly, there’s enough of unhappiness going around without seeking it out and courting it. Plus, I find that people online are usually about 10 times meaner online than they would dare to be in person because of the anonymity afforded by a keyboard. 

On top of all of that, I think it’s equal parts impersonal and unromantic and strongly believe that if there’s such a thing as soul mates, mine wouldn’t be caught dead online dating, much less f-ing around on Tinder. Call me old-fashioned/crazy/downright delusional, but I still believe in the possibility of a classic meet-cute scenario. Like in the movies, but slightly less trite and definitely less saccharine. 

All of this being said, when my neighbor/friend, J, said she was going to use her Tinder to play matchmaker, I didn’t contest. Well, not as much as I ought to have at least.

Turns out in addition to being painfully shy, awkward, and thin-skinned, I’m also exceedingly naive because I ultimately thought no harm could come of it. 

I was wrong. 

This is a recurring theme.

One afternoon, I was swiping through J’s Tinder when I came across a very handsome gentleman. I swipe to indicate that I found him attractive. To my utter surprise, I receive an indication that he thought likewise. So, I sent him a cutesy message. 

He immediately informs me that he swipped for me by mistake.

Ouch, but okay. 

He then says that me picking him was a given.

...right... so much for that gentleman thing.

He then proceeds to tell me that if I’d like to give him a blowjob and never speak to him again, that’d be fine but otherwise, he wishes me the best.

Needless to say, I asked J to scrub her profile of everything and anything having to do with me. Like I said, I don’t know if soul mates are a thing...

...but I sure as hell do know that mine wouldn’t trying to neg girls into sad hummers online.

Outcome: Once again Tinder free, rather disgusted by online dating in general.

[thenewarkdiaries-blog]

Anna Karenin-nah

Picture it: Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. 2011.

Setting: Purchasing books at Barnes and Noble with one of my sisters, a handsome man is behind the counter at the check out.

As the handsome cashier rings up my purchases, he notices that I purchased a couple of B&N’s leather bound classics. The cashier asks me about Crime and Punishment, inquiring whether I have read the book. I tell him I have and that I really enjoy Russian literature in general. The cashier suggests that I check out their leather bound versions of other Russian novels, in particular Anna Karenina. He smiles. He’s dashing. I pout, confused.

I tell him that there isn’t a leather bound edition of Anna Karenina-- B&N hadn’t published it yet. He asks if I’m sure. I give him major side eye and state that I was unequivocally certain. I ask why he isn’t more aware of his store’s own offerings. He looks chastened and finishes ringing up my items. I pay and leave with my sister hot on my heels.

Sister: That guy was flirting with you.

Me: Huh? No, he wasn’t. He was trying to make an extra sale.

Sister: You were so mean to him.

Me: I wasn’t mean. I just think he should’ve known his shit.

Sister: You are seriously the most oblivious person on the planet.

Outcome: still the (likely) most oblivious person on the planet.

[thenewarkdiaries-blog]

A Turnpike Creeper

Picture it: A gas station off the New Jersey turnpike. 2017.

Setting: Inside a gas station convenience store off the turnpike, waiting to use the f’real milkshake machine.

As I stand at the machine, off in the corner of the store, I hear a man’s voice whisper “hey”. I look around to see if the voice is speaking to me. I see a man quickly ducking behind a display. I try to shrug it off and turn my attention back to making my shake.

The man shout-whispers “hey” again. I turn, he ducks back behind the display. He says something inaudible and I’m wholly creeped out.

I grab my shake and walk away to pay of it. The man, coming out slightly from his hiding place again shout-whispers “hey”. I walk away faster, convinced this man is some sort of slasher that hangs around turnpike gas stations and rest stops, scoping out potential victims. As I leave the store, the man shout-shouts “dirty bitch” after me.

Outcome: didn’t die, delicious milkshake.

[thenewarkdiaries-blog]

From Russia with Zero Love

Picture it: Newark, New Jersey. 2017.

Setting: a late night trip to a local diner with my neighbor/NJ bestie, sat in a really hot waiter’s section.

I think it’s important to admit at this point that I have absolutely zero game. If there’s such a thing as having negative game, that’s what I’m working with. I’m shy and awkward and, in short, I’m not great with the fellas.

My neighbor/friend, J, is well aware of my inability to talk to the opposite sex and, bless her heart, she tries her best to help me overcome my deficiencies. 

She’s a gem, truly. 

A very optimistic gem. 

So, about an hour into our late-night nosh, J notices that our waiter is attractive. I brush her observation off. But, she insists that I really look at him, and it turns out that she’s right. The man is hot. I comment that he has a Russian accent and that I have always loved Russian literature. I assume that the conversation regarding this man will amount to nothing and that it is over.

I’m wrong.

This is a recurring theme.

The waiter comes back to our booth to check on how we are enjoying our meals. J asks him if he is indeed Russian and mentions that I love Russian literature. The waiter looks at me, with some excitement on his face, and I confirm that I do indeed enjoy it, having studied some of the classics and fairytales during undergrad. He asks what books I like. I answer his question. He asks if I speak Russian and says something to me in the language. I give an awkward half smile and tell him that I don’t know the language at all-- all of the books and texts that I have read are in translation.

He smiles and says something I don’t catch because I’m now lost in his beautiful blue-grey eyes. He walks away and J tells me that I actually did a good job in interacting with a man. I give myself a psychic pat on the back and assume that’s the end of the that. 

I’m wrong.

Again, this is a recurring theme.

J tells me that she’s going to see if he wants to give me “private Russian lessons”. I laugh and tell her that he will not be remotely interested in doing such a thing. I tell her that I’d really like to be able to come back to this particular diner, so perhaps we should leave things as they stand. The whole time, I freak out every single time he walks by our booth, unable to look up from the table’s surface for fear of catching his eyes.

Eventually, the waiter comes back to the table and asks if we need anything else. J laughs and asks if he’d like to give me some “private Russian lessons”. She smiles at him and it is apparent to anyone that the girl is as smooth as silk. I, on the other hand, am not. As soon as she asks her question, I cover my entire face with my hands and repeat a muffled “omg” over and over. The waiter gives a dismissive laugh and says that he is married. He’s not wearing a ring, so this may or may not be true. He and I avoid eye contact the rest of the time that I am there.

Outcome: no digits, can absolutely never go back to that diner at night again, heartburn from the meal.

[thenewarkdiaries-blog]

Also, why are so many of the damn streets one way??? 

[thenewarkdiaries-blog]

The struggle. 

She is real.

Avoiding his work by gorging on carbs, the grad student chooses a flavorful way to spiral out of control.

[thenewarkdiaries-blog]

Eenie, Meenie, Miney, Mo...

Picture it: Newark, New Jersey. 2017.

Setting: A Latin club late some Saturday night/ early some Sunday morning with a group of girls. The same night as “Despacito”.

I’m with one of the girls, V, sitting at a small table in the smokey side of the club (as opposed to the loud side). Despite not caring for the music and the smoke making me occasionally gag, I’m having a relatively decent time. I look up towards V to ask her a question and I see, a little ways off behind her, a man emerging from the smoke. Like Prince, but with much less swagger. The man walks up to V and asks her to dance. She declines. He asks again. She declines again.

Not to be deterred, the man shrugs and asks if I want to dance. 

I feel vaguely offended by being the obvious second choice and rebuff his advances. I’m taken aback by his audacity and the relative rudeness of the assumption that I (or any woman really) would be wooed by the prospect of being seen as a consolation prize. Despite being annoyed, I brush it off, assuming that this is an isolated incident.

I’m wrong.

This is a recurring theme.

Two other girls in our group, J and D, join us at the table. We sit there for a while, chatting and having a grand ole time. Occasionally through the evening, different men approach the table to ask one of us to dance. Whenever we decline, they automatically go around the table, asking each of us in turn. As the evening progresses, the men become more flagrant in their approach; somewhere around one in the morning, they simple point and repeat their one-worded question: “you?”. I’m non-plussed (and not in the American sense) by the whole situation and unable to fix my face in any way that doesn’t automatically betray this. Needless to say, I’m always the last resort. Perhaps because of my resting bitch face, perhaps because I’m the simply the DUFF in this particular situation. 

Somewhere around two in the morning, as the evening is winding down and the club is on the verge of closing, a group of men approach our table. I was busy on my phone and didn’t clock their approach so their arrival and a husky voice asking “do you want to dance” from behind me puts off balance. I whirl around and realize the man speaking was a very attractive man that I had noticed throughout the evening but was too shy to go up to. I breathlessly ask if he was talking to me or to J, who is sitting to my right,

He shakes his head and indicates was talking to J. She declines. He says I’d do. 

I roll my eyes and turn my attention back to my phone.

Outcome: paid for my own drinks, used DuoLingo to brush up on my French, still unable to hide my disdain in any situation or setting.

[thenewarkdiaries-blog]

Very accurate... a thumb ring is an automatic dub.

Like a wife would stop me.

[thenewarkdiaries-blog]

The Opposite of Despacito

Picture it: Newark, New Jersey. 2017.

Setting: a latin club with a group of girls late some Saturday night/early some Sunday morning. 

I’m not a club person, and I don’t particularly care for Latin music, yet I found myself at a Latin club. It’s very loud in one room and incredibly smoky in the other. I decide on the lesser of the two evils and offer up my ears to the God of Bad Decisions rather than my lungs. 

I’m sitting at a table with one girl, V. She is perhaps less into the scene than I am. Out of my periphery, a man approaches. He’s older than dirt. He holds out his hand and motions towards the dance floor. I’m not interested in dancing at all, so I politely decline. I think that’s going to be the end of it.

I’m wrong.

This is a recurring theme. 

Two of the other girls in my group, J and D, descend out of nowhere. They pull me out of my seat and then push me towards the man and then towards the floor. I try to explain to the man that I don’t know how to dance and that I’d really rather not, but its very loud and he doesn’t speak English, so my pleas fall on unhearing ears.

The man asks me a series of questions while I smile awkwardly and shake my head, trying to explain that I don’t speak any Spanish. He continues to ask questions, I continue not to know what he’s saying. Suddenly, the man grabs my ass and purrs the word amour. 

That I understood. 

I reel back and thank him for the dance. The man attempts to pull me back into him, but is thankfully unsuccessful. I meet my group in the middle of the dance floor and thank them, sarcastically, for throwing me to the geriatric wolf. As I head back to my seat, I notice the man has found a new dance partner. She is younger than I am and totally into the whole situation. 

Outcome: paid for my own drink, groped by Methuselah, ringing in ears when I woke up.

[thenewarkdiaries-blog]

The Sniffer

Picture it: Newark, New Jersey. 2017.

Setting: an outdoor bar with a girlfriend, two men come sidling up.

I, as usual, am under the impression that one of the men is interested in my friend and the second is doing his wingman duty.

I’m wrong.

This is a recurring theme.

One of the men orders a drink and sits next to me. His friend chats up my friend. The man speaking to me informs me he and his friends are cops. He then declares I’m “cute as shit” several times. 

I’m polite but absolutely non-committal. 

This is also a recurring theme.

He’s old enough to be my father and I’m more than slightly skeeved out. The man leaves to take a call and, as he is walking away, he SNIFFS me. Nose to shoulder contact was made.

I nervously laugh and call attention to the incident to my friend and his friend. They are both in utter disbelief.

The man comes back, and proceeds to sniff me again. Everyone saw. There’s no denying it this time.

That shit really happened.

The man then declares that he wants to kidnap me. His friend apologizes, says he’s drunk (despite his drink never being touched) and the two leave.

Outcomes: sniffed twice, paid for my own drink, took a very hot shower when I got home.

[thenewarkdiaries-blog]

I (Like to) See Dead People

Picture it: Newark, New Jersey. 2017.

Setting: out celebrating a girlfriend’s birthday, at one bar waiting for her other friends to arrive from LI before we head out to a club.

I’m sitting at a table, my friend is on the other side. A man approaches and asks to sit down. We oblige... there aren’t any other open seats. The man sits down on my friend’s side of the table and starts trying to talk to her, but she’s preoccupied on her phone, planning the rest of the evening.

The man starts to talk to me, and I assume that he’s just bored.

I’m wrong.

This is a recurring theme.

The man starts asking me questions, but it’s very loud in this particular bar and I can’t hear him. He takes this as an invitation to move to my side of the table and slide his chair close to mine. 

I keep looking at my friend, who is now standing near by, and trying to psychically indicate that this man is making me deeply uncomfortable. Meanwhile, the man asks me what I do and I tell him. I then, out of detached politeness, ask what he does. He tells me he just got out of the armed forces. I ask how he liked it. 

He tells me he loved it. And that his favorite part was killing people. 

He laughs and disingenuously says he believes in God and that he shouldn’t say things like that. He then drives his previous point home by reiterating that he really did enjoy killing people. 

I fall silent. 

The man takes this to mean that I’m impressed (I’m actually horrified) and says he’d like my phone number. 

I mumble something non-committal. 

This is also a recurring theme.

He demands, rather loudly and directly in my ear, that I take out my phone so that when I put my number into his phone he can call me and verify that I gave him the correct phone number. He has crazy eyes and has just told me that he likes killing people, so I oblige. 

As he’s calling me, I take the opportunity to text my friend an SOS message. 

She tells me and the man that our ride is outside and we have to go. I mutter goodbye. And then block his phone number as soon as we are outside.

Outcomes: paid for my own drink, will likely recognize that man on a future edition of 20/20 or an episode of Snapped.