“You are too old to recount your dates to the Internet,” I decided when I found myself reunited with the single troupes last summer. “You had your fun, now you should grow! Mature! Evolve!” I was secretly hoping that I had tapped into some newfound wisdom that would result in an organic shortage of content for this blog.
Ha. Just like leopards don’t change their spots, I don’t change my proclivity to seek out psychiatric case studies. Enter Machete Man.
It was November 6th and I had spent the morning at my local polling place and the afternoon getting grappling with a 4-hour migraine-slash-medical-mystery (which has since been resolved). I felt sad, story, sorry for myself, in need of love. And so, I did something that has never led to anything good in the past, and agreed to go out with a guy I had just met online, that very evening.
He did call me, if that adds any credibility to my judgement. Well, first we matched on Hinge, then we messaged, and then he asked if he could be “old school” and call me. He seemed relaxed and funny over the phone, which was exactly what I needed.
“Let’s have dinner, it will be great,” he said.
“Hmm, it would be fun to be out the night of the election,” I ruminated out loud. It was just the midterm, but I was curious.
“Oh yeah, it will be fun to watch the liberals cry!” was his response.
Oy. No bueno.
“Wait, are you a Trump supporter?” I asked him, the millennial equivalent of “Have you been tested?”
“No, he’s a buffoon. He’s bad for my party.”
Okay, so he was just an ideological Republican. Far from ideal, but my miserable condition didn’t leave room for much pickiness. I agreed to meet him at some hip Nolita restaurant that evening.
By the time I arrived (ten minutes late, à la française), he was waiting at a table with a glass of wine. He was handsome in a high school quarterback way that I’m not attracted to, like SpongeBob had copulated with a Greek statue and this was their lovechild.
“So, are you usually late?” He asked me as we sat down. He tipped his chair back and assessed me, as if I was a watch he had bought off the Internet and now had to authenticate. I knew from that moment I hated him, but I was kind of stuck.
We ordered food and he began asking me questions. This would have been nice, except that he also followed each statement I made with a keen character observation, such as when he told me that working for myself might be an indicator of social anxiety disorder (maybe!) Speaking of which, nothing about his professional path made sense – there were so many degrees and career changes and “specialties” that I had a strong feeling I was being played.
Around 10pm, he took out his phone. “Let’s see what’s going on!” he said, pulling up the election results. Suddenly, his eyes lit up.
“Ted Cruz, yes! Florida, yes!” he said, briefly showing me the (predominantly red) voting map. He continued listing every Republican Senator that had been elected that night. Each time he would say a name, he would smack the table with his hand, looking positively euphoric.
“So, not a Trump supporter, huh?” I asked him when he was done.
“No! I told you, he’s bad for my party.”
I asked him to elaborate. He told me that Trump was too divisive, too loud-mouthed and “too much of a pussy” to earn his support, and that he respected strong leaders like Putin and even Bolsonaro, who thought “country first.” Oh, he was also sick of paying taxes for 50% of the country, of people abusing welfare systems while he “worked his ass off” and of “stupid liberals” with their virtue signaling and “dumb do-gooder rhetoric.” (The latter may have been directed at me.) Please keep in mind that this entire speech took place in the middle of Nolita, where “dumb do-gooders” are a dime a dozen.
I drank. I listened. I drank more. I vaguely considering setting up a tape recorder, but there were some serious anger issues to consider, and Marie Colvin I am not.
After our plates had been removed from the table by our (heavily tattooed, presumably liberal) waiter, he ordered another glass of wine (his fourth), my date pulled out a vape pen and took a hit. “Just a little CBT,” he said, offering me some. I passed, then commented on his uncharacteristically progressive habit.
“Ah yes, I am actually very progressive on social issues! I support abortion rights and gun reform,” he said, adding, “And I would know – I have guns.” He explained that, unlike most people, he had been professionally trained to use guns and would gladly surrender them if the rest of gun-toting Americans surrendered theirs.
This is where we interrupt our programming to inform you that I am dead scared of guns (pun malintended). I loathe them. The memory of armed policemen in the streets of le Marais in Paris circa 2016 still haunts me. But, here in America, guns are legal, and this guy seemed like a responsible gun owner, for what it’s worth.
Then, to further emphasize the horrors of the American gun scene, he decided to tell me an anecdote that began with the following sentence: “This one time, I was in the mood for a machete, so I went to the store and…” The rest of the story is long and irrelevant and involves some man he had met at the store. It was the first sentence that really stuck with me – this one time, he was in the mood for a machete. To do what – carve pumpkins? Practice for his Dexter audition? What in God’s name could have triggered this sudden need for a machete, i.e a “broad blade used either as an implement like an axe, or in combat like a short sword.”
“Why did you need a machete?” I asked.
“I don’t know, just felt like buying one,” he said, shrugging.
Of the 3728632 options presented to me by Hinge, I had managed to find a weed-smoking, Jewish Republican who collects artillery in the same way that I collect Glossier lip colors. (Yes, he was also Jewish, perhaps the only thing we had in common.) A true Renaissance Man, with a Trumpian twist.
Guns and domestic politics aside, he aptly decided we hadn’t covered every contentious topic that existed in 2018, so he turned the conversation to Russia. “You know, I bet Putin is happy. I know some people don’t like him, but, for his country and his people, he is doing everything right.”
I think it may have been some kind of attempt to bond with me, but it had the reverse effect. I could no longer take it. “Look, I have listened to you voice opinion on your country. Now, please, just leave mine alone. You are not Russian and not qualified to judge what – or who – is ‘good for the people,’” I declared.
He informed me that he was some kind of Russian scholar (no surprise, he had a degree in everything – perhaps, from Trump University). I informed him that he was some kind of nationalist with a dictator fetish.
“I don’t have a dictator fetish,” he said, angrier now than in his previous rants. “Do you see what is happening? We are divided, split, incapable of making decisions. This is why people shouldn’t be given too much freedom – nothing good comes out of it. I don’t like dictators…. No, what I like is ORDER!” With that last word, he slammed his hand on the table. Things shook. People stared.
By then, I had moved my chair about a foot away from the table. I felt absolutely no obligation to answer – the social contract had been broken.
I think he realized that he had gone too far, because he asked for the check. We sat there for a few minutes in hyper-awkward silence, then he got upset. “I shouldn’t share my views,” he spluttered, “I am just so passionate, and nobody agrees with me, and then I just look stupid.”
What he actually looked like was Grawp, the misunderstood giant from Harry Potter. I almost felt sorry for him, then reminded myself that he collected axes for fun. “You’re not stupid, you just really needed to work on your presentation and delivery,” I told him halfheartedly.
“You’re right. Thank you, I learned a lot,” he said.
I learned a lot too that evening. For example, I learned that dating in 2018 (and now, in 2019) is an odd, politically charged experience, and you better be ready for all the “unconventional” profiles you may encounter along the way. I learned (yet again) that it’s best not to go on a date when feeling sorry for yourself – your judgement is off and your faith in humankind is at stake. Lastly, I learned the most populated and well-lit route home from Nolita. After all, you should never underestimate a man with a machete.
And yet, sometimes it can be fun.