Peeing on NYU

25 Jun

I come from a Jewish family of Yenta’s and so needless to say, when my dad heard that his Jewish client had a single son, he immediately got the 411. Here are the stats: he’s over 5’10, he’s single, he’s Jewish, he’s a red head, and he’s a magna cum laude college graduate (read: he’s fucking marriage material). I get excited, but probably should have known better.

Presumably after a sufficient amount of stalking, he messages me on facebook and asks me out for a drink. We meet at a dimly lit, local west village watering hole. He gets there before me and takes a seat at the bar. Ten minutes later, I arrive and scan the room. I spot a lone patron with neon orange hair, but think to myself, “No. Dad assured me he was a classic ginger. He’d never set me up with Carrot Top, right?” Sadly, there’s nobody else with red hair in the bar, so I assume it’s him and walk over to say hello. Since I heard he was tall, I decided to go with a small wedge heel. I figured what the hell. Tall Jews are rare, so why not save my feet from a lifetime of boring flats. He stands up to greet me, and I’m shocked as barely clears my chin. “Fuck,” I think to myself. “Shoulda gone with the flats. But be open. He’s single, and Jewish.”

Surprisingly, the conversation flows and it’s interesting. We talk about music, we talk about New York and we talk about food. All good, neutral subjects. Then, in the midst of a heated battle over the best Dim Sum in NYC, he tells me he has a home composting station. I think “Ok. So he’s Green. I can work with that.” Next up, he tells me he started an herb garden in his Brooklyn apartment. “How cute,” I think. “He can cook me fresh pasta with a sprinkling of home grown oregano.” Then, he casually mentions that he doesn’t flush the toilet unless he “goes number 2.” Check please?

He picks up the tab for two rounds of drinks. We’re near my apartment and so he offers to walk me home. I oblige, partially amused by his valiant attempt at chivalry. Two blocks into our walk, ginger man taps my shoulder and asks me to wait a second. I’m assuming he needs to re-tie his shoe (filthy Vans, circa 1998) but to my surprise, I see his hand move to start undoing his belt. What’s this? Does he really think that after telling me he only flushes for “number 2’s” I’m gonna be into a quickie? Next thing I know, I see him unzip his pants and whip out his you know what. I knew what was coming next. Stunned, I walk to the end of the block in an attempt to avoid getting a glimpse of his red haired monster. Even while standing at the end of the block, I heard a sound that can only be equated to the running waters of Niagara Falls. “He’s peeing,” I think to myself. “Holy fucking shit, he’s literally peeing. On the street. In front of NYU, my alma mater.”

After he’s relieved what I later learned was “a really big pee,” he walks to where I’m standing, and resumes conversation as normal. I’m paralyzed, stunned, blankly nodding my head as he tells me he’s super into Bright Eyes (who, coincidentally, is my least favorite artist on the planet).  As we approach my apartment, he reaches to take my HAND, and go in for a kiss. I whip my arm behind my back, turn a cheek, and run home to write this story and call my dad.


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