When my friend Gigi first moved to the city, we dedicated ourselves to going out. We hit the town as hard as we knew how. We would bar hop all over midtown and find ourselves at the kind of clubs on 33rd and 3rd that I wouldn’t go to now if you paid my bar tab for a year. But we had a lot of fun, drank a lot of light beer and danced.
On one of these outings, I was summoned over to a corner of the bar by a tall handsome stranger. Harry was a cop. He was nice and tall. He told me he wanted to take me out for hibachi in Queens, which was, I thought, a nice display of humor. We joked about how “Nothing good happens after two AM”, one of my favorite How I Met Your Mother episodes. He was a little older than anyone who should be at a bar at 33rd and 3rd (aka, over 18), but in an attempt not to let small superficialities mar a good opportunity, I gave him my phone number.
Gigi and I found our way back to the apartment around four. I’d left my phone at home, much to my chagrin, so I immediately raced over to it to see how many millions of friends and admirers had called me. There was only one text message, from a 917 number. “Nothing good happens after 2 AM… Great to meet you tonight-Harry”
I felt inexplicably creeped out. Though I’d given him my phone number willingly an immediate text seemed a little needy. But it was four in the morning at that point and time for this little panda to go to sleep.
When I woke up around 9:30, I had five missed calls from Harry. Who calls anyone five times in a row?! Nearly every phone in the world has caller ID, and certainly every cell phone does. That kind of behavior is only for best friends and super close relatives. Even then, it needs to be an emergency. (e.g. GI Joe: Retaliation is coming out in June. It is totally appropriate for the Awesome Opossum to call me 5 times in a row to tell me this information.)
Harry left me a voice mail about grabbing hibachi that afternoon. When I am hung over, the idea of going out to Queens and having someone throw a shrimp tail at me sounds like a brutal punishment. This forty-ish year old cop contacted me six times in the less than twelve hours we’d known each other. That seemed like enough reason to never respond to him and hope that my silence would convey my intent.
No such luck. Harry called three more times within the week. I got so creeped out that I had to have the Awesome Opossum check my voice mail for me. She still does a dead-on impression of him to this day.