I Love LA

When I'm on the subway, I make a concerted effort to avoid eye contact with anyone, because locking eyes with someone will occasionally be misinterpreted as me jumping up and down and loudly exclaiming, 'Come over here, mumble incoherently under your breath, and lick my face.' The subway was packed last night, so it was harder than usual to avoid looking at people, particularly since I kept hearing these short staccato indiscernible screeches. Were they the loud protests from a pre-verbal child? Or, more likely, the odd vocal outbursts from a disheveled, unmedicated adult?

Neither, it turns out. It was the squawking of a large parrot perched on the arm of a smirk-faced man. I made eye contact with the parrot, and because I was so captivated by the bird, it took me a while to realize what Smirk Face was holding in his other hand -- a long rectangular cardboard-and-wire-mesh carrier with 3 or 4 rats in it. That's when I had to get a big long look at the guy who thinks it's completely normal to get on the subway with a large untethered bird and a box of rats.

I looked him up and down. He was kind of a slob, wearing big faded jeans that were cut off mid-shin -- ratty man capris that looked like he was just so annoyed by the discomfort of wearing full-length jeans, he grabbed a scissors and hacked off the bottom part in a fit of comfort over convention.  He was ambiguously middle aged, falling somewhere in the range of 35 to 55. His head was covered with an  unruly mass of chin-length brown hair, except for the small bald spot in the back. Then I noticed he was wearing a gold band on the third finger of his left hand. Smirk Face is presumably married. WTF?! I know many wonderful LA women, who have their shit together, who aren't married, and not all by choice. But Smirk Face -- a walking human game farm -- is off the market. I want Randy Newman to write a song about *that* LA.

Single

"Wrong # So. Cal," he texted in response to my friendly text message that was meant for a friend, but inadvertently sent to him. In town for a work gig and a quick visit with me, my friend had recently dropped her phone, so I was trying to reach her on another phone she had borrowed for her trip. "Sorry!" I texted back, unable to repress my overly polite inner midwesterner.

Less than 30 seconds later, he texted back "Single." Not 'I'm Single,' or 'Hey, you're a woman, and I'm a man, are you single?" Just "Single." Just like that. Like he felt he had to blurt this out and hope that the right moment hadn't passed without letting me know he was single and ready to mingle. It had all the awkwardness of someone answering too soon a question that wasn't even asked. Think about it. At the time he blurted out "Single," he only knew two basic things about me. I had a female name, and I presumably lived in Los Angeles.

Now, under most circumstances, I would have just put my phone down and walked away. He's a stranger. I don't owe him anything. I didn't really understand why someone would try to connect with a woman who lives 1,000 miles away, sight unseen. He struck me as one of those lonely Norwegian bachelors desperate for *any* female contact.

Curious to see how his ill considered move would play out, I texted back.

Me: Go on.

Single: Just checking. Case of momentary bravery.

Me: Have wrong texts led to previous, if fleeting, success with the ladies? Seems like a low-percentage play.

Single: Hehe yeah no...first time caller.

Me: Still, using wrong texts to meet women is probably a more successful strategy than online dating. At least for guys.

Single: Wouldn't know. Anti-online.

And, apparently, anti-girlfriend who lives within a day's drive of him.

Single: So...I'm Dave. Hi <my name written as if I were a rapper>.

Me: Yeah, it deserves your contempt. Online dating is the sledgehammer of romance.

Single: Than 
Oops. I hit send button to (sic) soon. Let me sort it out.

Sort it out?! Winner, winner, chicken dinner. This guy must be at least 70! It just kept getting better and better.

Single: Thank you. And sledgehammer of romance is brilliant!

Me: Thanks. Seems pretty accurate. So, tell me something true about yourself that might surprise me.

Single: True n surprising?

Me: Yep. Given that I only know four things about you, surprising me shouldn't be that difficult.

No response. Finally, 35 minutes later, he texts back.

Single: I'm overthinking it and it's past my bedtime.

What would motivate a guy to try to start something up with a faraway stranger? He certainly didn't have an inkling as to what I look like, and even less of a sense of my good inner qualities. My initial misdirected text to my friend was friendly, but not funny or clever. There was nothing in that text other than my first name and a couple of friendly inquiries.

So it begs the question, 'What kind of guy is Single if he's champing at the bit to tell a stranger with a woman's name, who lives 1,000 miles away, that he's available?' A guy with no feasible options, that's who. A guy who lives in his mother's basement, and perhaps a voracious connoisseur of comic books and hot dogs.  A modern-day Ignatius J. Reilly.