Summerboy

By the way, how tall are you? I typed into my phone, tapping Send just before the train reached the service-free zone of Manhattans extensive underground. It was a late afternoon in July and I was making my way from my friends summer apartment on West 109th Street to the NQ terminal at Astoria-Ditmars Boulevard in Queens. The purpose of this journey was to meet up with a 21-year-old NYU student named Charlie. I didnt know much about him, aside from our shared love for The Lord of the Rings and the new Kanye West album even though most people in my social circles also liked The Lord of the Rings and Kanye West. It wasnt like Tinder gave away much telling information. Yes, I was on my way to a date with a guy Id met online. I began using the Tinder mobile app about a month before, not because I was searching for a shot at love or a summer fling during my ten-day trip to New York City, but out of the overwhelming boredom that one can experience during a job-free, internship-free, productivity-free summer vacation. Sure, there were more than a few better ways to have spent all that free time, but the lack of any conceivable goal led to a lack of motivation. My situation was regrettably self-inflicted, and embarking on these little adventures was my lazy attempt at an antidote. Besides, in this quick-fix society of smartphones and single-click services, Tinder proved to satiate my boredom just about fine. As I learned later on, asking for a persons height on sketchy online dating apps should be at the top of ones list of icebreakers, so that when the train stopped at 72nd Street station and I received Charlies reply, I wouldnt have been so thrown off: Im 58, but I dont really care about height hbu? Not to sound like a basic bitch here, but I seriously considered shifting course right then and there. I had met up with Tinder guys a few weeks before meaningless, fleeting interactions that meant very little the next day and in the grand scheme of either of our lives and during the messaging stages, the height issue was always a deal breaker. There had been more than a few instances over the last couple of nights wherein I would instantly block anyone who claimed to stand below six feet tall; I had somehow forgotten to ask for Charlies height, perhaps because I assumed that someone who looked like that couldnt possibly be shorter than me. I later dismissed this logic as the result of countless hours spent mindlessly swiping my thumb left and right across my phone. When on Tinder for that long, even the most hopeless romantic could collapse into bimbo status. Then again, as a 59 Filipina used to towering over other classmates in middle and high school, I figured that messing around with Tinder could at least introduce me to people who were more like Legolas and less like Frodo. Cheeky remarks aside, getting off at the massive concourse at Times Square held me at a crossroads. I could have called the whole thing off and gone back to the Upper West Side, or taken a train further downtown to Union Square to visit friends from my high school. Since I was already acting upon one of the shallowest social tools of the millennial generation, my conscience could have lived through the rude moment of sending a message that simply said, Ew, no.

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Instead I adamantly vowed to veer away from the monotony of the last month and a half of summer I replied, Im 59. Getting on the N now. And with that text, I ventured off to Queens, with no immediate intention of going back. The uptown N train peeks above ground after leaving Manhattan and remains elevated as it runs through its route in Queens. I whipped out my phone at the first hint of mobile service to notify my iPhone-equipped friends of my agenda and whereabouts. Please dont get murdered, two of them message me almost simultaneously. Well, thanks to the Appledeveloped Find My Friends app because there really was an app for everything I told them they could see where I was at any time, and I asked them to please check on me at least every couple of hours, just to be safe. If I look like Im floating along the East River, you know what to do, I remarked in jest, looking out the trains window onto the unfamiliar urban landscape outside. I rarely ever went to Queens, especially over the last two years, save for the occasional visits to the Filipino food establishments on Roosevelt Avenue in Flushing. Every two weeks, my aunt Grace from Boston with whom I stayed for most of the summer would drive down to New York to visit her older sister Gina, who had been residing in a nursing home in the north Bronx since having an aneurysm in 2003. Whenever Tita Grace and I were both in the city, we would drive to Roosevelt and allow ourselves to be teased with flavours and faces reminiscent of home. Wed indulge in the weekend lunch buffet at Renees Kitchenette, watch The Filipino Channel on one of their television screens, and more often than not, in between bites of rice and kare-kare, I found myself wishing that I could be back in Manila for the summer, instead of having to resort to Tinder for entertainment. Between texting my friends, admiring the Manhattan skyline from a distance, and hoping that the heavy hip-hop beats filling my ears would drown out the violent grating noise of the trains wheels pounding along the elevated tracks, I was trying to coordinate a meeting place with Charlie. He told me that hed pick me up from the subway stop, though I wasnt sure what wed do afterwards. The height difference, though small and possibly negligible, had automatically ruled out the possibility of anything sexual to happen between us; that was for sure. Wasnt that what Tinder was for? What, then, would we do instead? On Astoria Boulevard, one stop away from the terminal, I considered, for a second time, heading back in the other direction. But then he sent me a message saying, Im here, and despite my previous eagerness to bail on him anyway, even the sourest filaments of my being could not manage to do such a thing. Id come this far, and who knew, maybe I would have a new friend by the end of the evening or, by some miracle, this guy would end up being so impressive that I would hook up with him anyway. Soon, the train slowed to its final stop at Astoria-Ditmars Boulevard. I shuffled down the stairs and out to the sweltering July humidity. Charlie whose voice and real-life presence remained a mystery was nowhere in sight. Where are you? I asked. Im right in front of the Chase. I looked around to make sure there wasnt another Chase Bank at the intersection, since there seemed to be one at every corner in Manhattan. Coming your way, he replied within seconds. Looking around for a face that resembled the one on my phone, I eventually spotted a smallish young man excitedly walking down the steps of the subway, apparently after trying to find me inside the station. Charlie waved in my direction with earnest enthusiasm, a
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gesture I responded to with what came out as a weak smile and an overtly standoffish hand gesture. He didnt seem to mind. But I did. This guy was not 58, but rather 55 at the most. His outfit was unseasonably warm: Charlie wore a white button-down, a grey cardigan, dark jeans and Sperrys, while I resembled a grungy prostitute in comparison, donning a loose black tank top, short shorts and Doc Martens. When words escaped his mouth, he spoke with a smug tone coupled with a seemingly congested nasal passageway: Hello, girl with the prettiest smile on Tinder. Shit. But actually. Ew. Shit. Turn back. Now. I wanted to run away, regretting not having done so an hour and a half ago, but I had already made such a long commute, and he and I seemed to get along before voices and face-to-face interaction were involved, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt. Hi, Im Kaye, I said, extending my right hand for a handshake. His grip was flimsy. We started walking. Since I couldnt get into any bars, Charlie told me that we could just hang out at his place; dubious as it was, I didnt mind, since I kept a lighter and a small can of pepper spray inside one of my pockets. As we passed the nearly identical houses that comprised Astorias architectural scene, Charlie and I held a conversation that Id had far too many times. We talked about college and our majors; he was a Political Science major, and one who described my chosen concentration in Creative Writing as really intriguing, though he asked no follow-up questions and changed topics. There were several awkward silences along the way, partly because he was leading me along streets that were neither gridded nor lined with high-rise buildings and rushing crowds, and partly because his entire body would bounce up and down with each step in one of the oddest struts Id ever seen. I also realised that the houses looked familiar because Id been to this neighbourhood before: in 2004, my mother and I came to Astoria to visit my great-uncle Andy during our two-month vacation in the States, and I really wished that I had his contact information on my phone. Okay, this is me, Charlie stopped in front of a chicken-wire fence around what I assumed to be his backyard. Sorry if this is weird, but were gonna have to go in through the back door. I raised an eyebrow, but also smiled, a reflex Id acquired over the years due to my usual desire to make a good first impression. We walked down three steps to a small door that Charlie unlocked and held open for me, saying, After you. A few years ago, before I even envisioned taking part in the online dating scene, I wrote a short story called A Distorted Reality for a creative writing workshop. The whole story was based on teengirl fantasy, the fictional account of a young girl who met up with a boy shed met on an instant messaging service. My nave, inexperienced imagination envisioned this encounter as a fairytale-perfect night, complete with bright lights, cobblestone streets and a warmly lit kiss under the stars. Later on, the protagonist woke up to discover that it was all a dream a classic novice move in fiction writing and, confused over her fate with the virtual character, shut off her computer and ventured off to reality. Reality, it seemed, was now playing some sort of a practical joke.
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At one point in the story, the two main characters crawled through a small doorway that led to a huge underground nightclub. I, on the other hand, walked into the dark room behind Charlies white wooden door, and saw after he quickly rushed in to turn the lights on his basement. Thankfully, the space did not carry the air of a murderous cellar. It had a kitchen, a bathroom, and a black leather couch set up in front of a large, flat-screen television that was surrounded by DVDs and videogames galore. There were recent issues of TIME, the Economist and the New Yorker in a fanlike spread on a coffee table. However, though these amenities put me at some ease, Charlies basement felt like an oven, no thanks to the lack of windows in the entire space. Can I use your bathroom? I asked, sensing the makeup melting from my eyelids. Its really humid, and I kind of need to freshen up a bit. Sure, he said, pointing to a door with a low ceiling behind me. I muttered a thanks and skipped towards it as if urgently needing to pee. Right as I closed the door, I whipped out my phone to text my friend Connor, with whom I shared the experience of using dating apps over the summer. I had been texting him throughout my commute through the elevated arm of my train ride over, and reminding him of my reluctance to be here and difficulty with leaving uncomfortable situations, typed in all capital letters: PLEASE TEXT/CALL ME AT MIDNIGHT. After waiting for the message to be delivered, I turned the tap on, splashed some cold water on my face, wiped it off with a paper towel, and reapplied a fresh new layer of drugstore makeup. Would you like a cigarette? he offered as I stepped out, whipping out a pack of Mild Sevens. This made me a little curious, since I had never seen anyone smoke Mild Sevens in America. Whered you get these? I asked, taking one and holding it to my mouth. I reached into my pocket for my own lighter, disregarding the Zippo in Charlies hand. I bought a carton when I went to Japan last month. I dont really smoke cigarettes, though, he replied. But I really like it when girls smoke, especially Asian girls. Repressing my inner feminist, I limited my reaction to a smirk and exhaled a large cloud of smoke. Do you have a beer? Surely. Charlie made his way to the fridge, grabbed two Heinekens, and handed me one. Sensing a slight vibrating sensation in my pocket, I excused myself for a moment to check for Connors reply. However, I realised that I had accidentally sent the message to another friend, Christine, who was much more sceptical about these matters, and replied: haha you should just fuck with him and then leave. make your own fun. Though the suggestion was twisted, and I was hardly the manipulative type, she did have a point. Over the last couple of weeks I had been willingly placing myself in uncommon social situations in pursuit of joie dt a joy of summer, so to speak. Id managed to sneak into the New York Pride parade, run around the Museum of Natural History during its last ten minutes before closing, and get escorted out of then allowed back into a historic and now-defunct gay nightclub; Id gotten away with a few illegal activities during my time spent in Boston, Oswego, New York, and my college that could have gotten me arrested or expelled, all in the name of adventure, or, as the much-abused mantra of the 2010s proclaimed, YOLO. Not to mention that, much unlike the date night of my fantasy that seemed to get progressively more exciting, this date seemed to only get worse. When our conversation topic shifted to music, I knew I had to breathe slowly and deeply, because it was soon
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revealed that, even though we both enjoyed listening to Yeezus on loop, Charlie and I hardly shared the same taste. Your music is ratchet, Charlie commented after I confessed to a little-known, growing love for southern trap music. So you dont like it? No. Well, what do you like? I didnt bother to get too defensive; I could have mentioned other genres I listened to, artists that were either generally accessible or incredulously obscure to someone whose iTunes library consisted of mainstream rap music and top 40 tracks from the year 2005 onwards. To mediate the discomfort, I suggested that we watch Fight Club. I had seen it about fifty times and needed to see and hear something actually enjoyable. More importantly, I desperately needed to take my mind off the fact that I was currently in a strangers basement, drinking beer after beer and chain smoking shitty, charcoal-filtered Mild Sevens next to a guy who unironically listened to Wiz Khalifa and fucking Chamillionaire. I could have left Charlies basement at any point that night, but then I would have lost the game. Throughout the movie, Charlie and I sat on opposite ends of the couch and made zero physical contact, yet he continued to offer me cigarettes and Heinekens that turned into a glass of Grey Goose on the rocks when the beer ran out. He ordered Thai food, too, since neither of us had eaten dinner, and he insisted upon footing the bill. Christine never texted at midnight, and I didnt realise how late it was until I checked the clock on the DVD player and saw that it was already 2 in the morning. Hey, Charlie, this has been really nice, but I think I should go, I said, standing up and walking towards my purse. My friends are still expecting me to go to Harlem tonight. Well, you could stay, he replied, apparently unfazed by what I perceived to have been the worst date of my life. Its late and my bedroom has an air conditioner. I think Im gonna go. I mean, you could stay. His tone was insistent. My decision remained unchanged. Im sorry, Charlie, I said. But I had so much fun. I guessed he eventually got the hint that despite his best efforts, Charlie (whose last name I never found out) wasnt about to get lucky that night. He remained polite, though, and escorted me back to the subway. At the foot of the stairs outside the Astoria-Ditmars Boulevard stop, Charlie tried to lean in for what seemed to be an attempt at a kiss; I dodged him by an inch and shook his hand in the same way as earlier. We exchanged brief, permanent goodbyes, and I ran up the stairs to wait fifteen minutes for the late-night N train to depart. During the commute back to Manhattan, my gaze shifted from one person to another: old men carrying plastic bags, couples impatient to arrive at a bedroom, a woman in a tight dress carrying a pair of stilettos in one hand. These characters that rode the New York City subway during late hours all had stories of their own in the tipsy, drowsy, sohappy-to-be-done-with-that state I was in, I was sure as hell that I did. When I finally reached the corner of West 109th Street and Amsterdam, I pulled a pack of Marlboros out of my purse and lit a cigarette.

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