Age 22
I was flying from LA to DC for my first Homecoming game post college. My friend Carrie and I took the red eye to save cash and our precious few days off. Hazy and half asleep, we switched planes in Atlanta.
I noticed a guy in the boarding area; handsome, clean cut, straight out of a J. Crew catalog. Crisp jeans, white button down and tie with a brown sweater vest. He carried an artist’s portfolio. And since attending college in our nation’s WASP capital, I’d become extremely soft for preppy types.
No sooner had I buckled my middle seat, seat belt Carrie was passed out nestled close to the window. I never sleep on planes. Just can’t.
Here he is again…J. Crew is walking down the aisle.
Honestly, all I wanted to tell him was that he was totally rocking the sweater vest (Gay style is expected, straight style deserves a positive Yelp review).
He sits down next to me. I shudder.
Typical. The ONE time someone hot sits next to me on a plane, I look like hell; I’ve not slept a wink all night. No make up. Yoga pants. Ugh. Uggs. I’m wearing f-ing Uggs. I’m just gross.
I smile and quickly pretend like I’m sleeping. He’s reading. Pretend sleeping doesn’t work well in the middle seat. I steal sneak peeks of him thorough my eyelid slits. He seems a little closed off, yet alert like he’s aware that I’ve noticed him. I wrestle with myself to sit still.
I give up. I start reading. I’m reading the Power of Now, by Echart Tolle for the third time.
I’m still obsessed with telling him he can pull off the sweater vest, but the only words that come out of my mouth are some mumbles about what book he’s reading.
He shows me the cover. “It’s pretty good. I’m just getting into it.”
“I wish I could sleep like her,” a nod to Carrie passed out up against the window, “She’s really fun to travel with.”
Opportunity missed. I go back to pretend sleeping. I’m burning these damn Uggs.
------#------
Fast forward two months to December. We’re back in LA. It was Carrie’s 23rd birthday. Post dinner, a gaggle of us giggled our way down the 3rd St Promenade on the way to another bar.
Talking and laughing a few glasses of chard deep, “I never forget a face, but I’m terrible with names. It gets me into trouble because I say hi anyway. I can’t pretend I don’t know someone…” I stop mid sentence in the middle of the sidewalk. Coming towards us is a pack of dudes lead by J. Crew in argyle.
I head straight for him.
“Excuse me—were you on a plane to from Atlanta to DC in October?”
“Um….yeah?” he says.
“Brown sweatervest?”
His clan of dudes chime in…”That’s him!!”
“I was sitting next to you. I just wanted to tell you that you can pull off a sweater vest.” He blushes. All his friends roast him.
“What are you guys doing tonight? Come out with us. It’s my sleepy friend’s birthday.”
He’s dumbfounded, but joins us anyway.
He and I dance all night followed by a DFMO (dance floor make out) on the banquettes in the back bar. At last call he asks me back to his hotel which is only 2 blocks away on the beach. I hesitate. I hesitate some more and succumb in a drowsy drunk haze.
I am not sloshed enough, however, to sleep with him. Yet, I was wearing a dress that necessitated commando on my lower half, which not only made me seem like a totally floozy, but it also made it all the more simple for him to get me fully naked. Being fully naked in a hotel room with a man I met on a plane (regardless of the fact that he can rock a sweatervest), made me sober up rather quickly. I could barely enjoy myself—I was busy fending off his advances towards my nether regions. Somewhere around 7a, I couldn’t take it anymore. Citing a familial obligation back home, I got dressed and quickly exited. In a haze of shame and guilt and embarrassment I took a cab back to Carrie’s house. I won’t see him again...he lives in Atlanta. I won’t see him again…he lives in Atlanta. It was my mantra all the way home.
-----#-----
Two weeks later I get a missed call on my cell phone.
“Mallory, It’s Stu. I’m in town for work. We’re going to the Laker game tonight, but I was hoping you’re free this weekend. Call me.”
I didn’t remember giving him my phone number, but I did remember that he was the creative director for an advertising agency based in Atlanta and that he occasionally works on commercial shoots in LA.
I wrestle with the idea of calling him back…
He seemed like a nice enough guy …I mean, what guy isn’t going to try to sleep with an inebriated girl who is naked in his bed…I can’t really blame that on him. It’s in his genetic DNA.
I decided that as long as I agreed to see him during the day, it would be safe and a better way to get to know him.
I call him. No answer. His voicemail message is Christopher Walken. I’m not kidding. In hindsight, I should have been creeped out that he had Chris Walken record his voice greeting, but I guess I’d have Tracy Morgan record mine if given the opportunity.
We had decided to do brunch and “something LA” since he rarely spends time here. I met him at a sports bar on the 3rd St Promenade. I had to double take. He looked really old. Or I had just been half asleep or really drunk on our two previous encounters? I am pretty taken aback. I struggle to hide my shock and awe from him as I simultaneously try to pause the sound-track of my mother’s voice scolding me on repeat in my head: Stranger Danger. Stranger Danger. Do you have your rape whistle? He’s more than double your age. He’s undressing you with his eyes.
Remaining as cordial and interested as possible, I try to move things along.
Me: “So what do you want to do? Go to a museum?...Walk around the Promenade?...Driving tour of LA?”
My mother’s soundtrack immediately begins again: You. Alone. In a car with a guy you barely know?
Stu: “Driving tour of LA sounds good. I haven’t seen much of the city other than these few blocks of Santa Monica”
At least I didn’t have to make eye contact with him in that scenario.
I decide to take him on Sunset through Brentwood, Beverly Hills, Hollywood and back to the beach. One of my mixed yoga CDs had been playing on my ride over to meet him…and he immediately quizzed me on it.
ME: “…oh yeah, I teach yoga on the side, but I prefer to keep my classes upbeat and more cardiovascular so I play everything from hip hop to Rolling Stones.”
He couldn’t comprehend. He went through the rest of my discs and immediately quizzed me on some indie sounding bands (of which, at that time I knew nothing about).
He picked up one I’d titled “yoga 4” in black sharpie.
STU: “…and you don’t name your discs? How do you know what’s on it? Come on…I think you could get a little more creative with the naming convention.”
ME: “uh, yeah, I guess you’re right.” (besides this story, that was the best thing that came out of me meeting Stu, and subsequently his suggestion may have subconsciously had something to do with the clever names for each man-story I have).
Around Beverly Hills we started getting deeper into his history growing up poor in the south; each of his stories came back to a central image of him and three siblings being crammed into the cab of a pick up truck. All I know is that there were still many unresolved issues which would have required some one much more qualified in psychology than my undergraduate degree could have provided. For this, I’m sorry.
As we passed Graumens Chinese Theatre and the Walk of Stars, I was sensing that he was the type who liked to keep ladies on their toes and on the defensive…It reminded me of some sick version of ‘The Game.’ Then he began to roughhouse with me—poking and prodding so he could make some physical contact. I was unamused. I hate that shit.
As we were stopped at a red light, he put his hands around my neck and began to fake choke me. I had to draw a line.
ME: “Please don’t touch my neck.”
STU: “Come on…I’m just playing…Lighten up”
He continued to shake my neck like a bobble head.
ME: “Get your hands off my neck! Don’t you realize that your life is in my hands right now? I’m driving!!!”
STU: “Oh, come on…we’re in the safest car ever made.”
ME: “I don’t care. I still don’t like it when people touch my neck”
I tried as best I could to keep things copasetic as I drove him back to Santa Monica in my mom’s Volvo. I just wanted to get him there without any other unnecessary roughness. I felt unsafe and objectified and belittled. Who knows what this mentally unstable stranger might pull out next?? In court he could just blame it on his daddy issues.
I pulled to the curb to let him out by the promenade. He went in for a kiss—which I dodged for a hug.
STU: “I’m around the rest of this week…can I call you?”
ME: “Sure. Have a good week.”
I’d say anything to get him out of my car. I sped away as fast as my “supremely safe” Volvo V8 turbo would take me, and let his calls go to voicemail.
Training Takeaway: Mile 3
-Just because you think you know someone because you sat next to them on a plane –and because a romantic encounter with them would be like something out of a Julia Roberts movie—you don’t.
-Do not go to a hotel with a stranger.
-Do not get in a car with a stranger.
-Just because he looks innocent and can dress himself in many articles of colorful, soft, wool, does not mean he will not try to kill you.
-If he has any sort of obsession with Christopher Walken—RUN, don’t walk.
-ALWAYS listen to your mother. She IS always right. Always.
-Don’t fall for “The Game.” A put-down is a put-down is a put-down. If he has to make you feel “little” so that you like him that’s never a good sign. You deserve a man who is honest and forthright with his feelings and one who recognizes you for the amazing creature you are and wants you in all of your bright, shiny, yoga #4 glory.
-Lastly, look presentable for airline travel. By this, I mean, put on mascara and jeans at least. Since this plane encounter I have met new friends, eligible bachelors and potential business partners on planes or in airports. You will feel more apt to connect with others if you are not in pajamas.
Training Playlist: Wreck of the Day, Anna Nalik
(And maybe I’m not up for being a victim of love/ When all my resistance will never be distance enough/ Driving away from the wreck of the day/ And it’s finally quiet in my head/ Driving alone, finally on my way home to the comfort of my bed)