3 Minutes on the 3rd Floor

My friend Carli forwarded a Facebook post to me:

Hmmm, I’m single; I’m a guy; I’m almost exactly halfway between 30 and 55. And cool is in the eye of the beholder. Plus I had no plans for Friday night (OK, I guess I lose a few coolness points there), I am fond of women, books, and chocolate—not necessarily in that order—and the event was being held in one of my favorite places on earth. I emailed the organizer and soon enough was on the guest list.

Which is when I started to get nervous. I’d never tried speed dating before. I’ve dabbled in other popular methods: Getting set up, meeting someone at a party, online dating, lurking in platonic friendships hoping that something “gives.” And though I’d been intrigued by the speed-dating concept, I’d never bitten the bullet.

I just never felt like the ideal candidate. My unique set of charms aren’t instantly revealed. The “elevator pitch” isn’t my style. Rather, I tend to grow on people over time. You know, like, fifteen, sixteen years.

An instruction for the evening also had me on edge. The Strand bookstore’s event listing said to “bring in your favorite book and find the love of your life.” Which book was my favorite? Well, a favorite that wouldn’t make me come across as a weirdo loner? And would it fit in my jacket’s inside pocket? Because I didn’t think I’d find the love of my life while lugging around a Jansport backpack. OK, it was settled, I’d bring a paperback of Pastoralia by George Saunders. His name turns up often enough in The New Yorker that maybe Miss Right will recognize it. But then could I also carry around the book I’m currently reading, to read on the train? Having a book in both inner pockets seemed odd, bulky. OK, no, I ripped out a couple of articles from Mojo magazine, folded them, and placed them in my back pocket, making sure the frayed edges weren’t sticking out and making me look like a hobo. Now my only remaining concern on this front: Getting accused of shoplifting on the way out, because of a book tucked in my pocket.

Wanted to look good but not slick-jerk good. Went with my classic V-neck sweater over t-shirt with khakis ensemble. My one bit of phoniness: I put on a pair of non-white socks.

Arrived at the Strand a few minutes before 7. The store was crowded and it wasn’t immediately apparent where the event was taking place. A pretty albino clerk said, “Welcome to the Strand, can I help you with anything?” No, I’m a man, I’ll find it. Also, who wants to admit they’re going to a speed-dating shindig? But a lap around the floor revealed nothing, and I found myself back with the albino clerk. “Welcome to the Strand, can I help you with anything?” she enquired again. Wow, I really don’t make much of a first impression with the ladies. Not an auspicious beginning to the evening.

She instructed me to take the elevator to the third floor. I didn’t even know the Strand had a third floor. Rare Books. With a bunch of heart decorations around. Oh yeah—almost Valentine’s Day. Not that I needed any extra pressure. A line had formed in front of a sign-in table. Seemed like a nice, friendly assortment of 30-to-55-year-olds. I considered chatting with the cute woman behind me in line but stopped when I realized that would entail—you know—chatting with a cute woman. I’d wait till the more formal scenario, when they would have to speak with me, thank you very much.

At the front of the line, I mentioned that I was on the guest list. (Otherwise, I would’ve had to purchase a $20 gift card to secure entry.) The staffer took my word for it; no actual list was consulted. I think they were still short on dudes. I was told to fill out a name tag:

And then was given a pink-and-white scoresheet of sorts, coded with the same number from my name tag. The columns had labels such as number; name; phone or e-mail; and “Like? [X]” Tables had been set up in long rows with women seated on one side. Men were slowly filling in the chairs on the other side. I was escorted to a seat on the far end of a table, across from three women of varying size, shape, and 30-to-55-ness. Were we supposed to talk now? Should I be talking to all three? Just one? I excused myself for complimentary chocolate-covered pecans, a plastic shot glass of hot chocolate, and… nah, the free champagne was too far away.

Two men sat next to me. I was mortified to discover that the one immediately to my right had heinous body odor. No!!! What if the women across from us can’t distinguish who stinks? I might be unfairly dubbed smelly! Thankfully, one of the organizers moved him to a table with fewer men, and with luck got him a quick shower and trial-size Speed Stick on the way.

The owner of the Strand welcomed us. I guess to psyche us up, she mentioned that she’d met her husband in a bookstore in Portland. (Powell’s, it must’ve been Powell’s, I’d like to meet a woman in Powell’s.) Next, event organizer/author Susan Shapiro was introduced. What a matchmaker she is! Oh, the number of marriages that have resulted from her talents! I should’ve apologized in advance for lowering her winning percentage.

Then Susan gave us the rules: We were to write our full name, favorite book, and preferred contact information atop our sheets. We’d have three minutes to talk. Discuss books—favorite books, favorite authors—do not talk about past relationships and depressing junk like that. Having a specified topic was a huge relief to me, because I’m still trying to figure out how to confidently say “I’m a full-time freelancer” without it sounding like “I am no longer gainfully employed and—to be perfectly honest—am not entirely sure I can afford to date anyone right now.”

Then a whistle would blow. The women would remain seated, while the men would move one seat to the right. If we liked someone, we were to write down her name, name-tag number, and favorite book on our scoresheet. Later, only the women would be provided with the mutually-liked men’s contact information. Now I was getting even more nervous. For one, I couldn’t really read the women’s name-tag numbers from across the table. I hadn’t brought my glasses, and squinting is not my best look. Also, if I didn’t write down a woman’s name, would I hurt her feelings? And then if I wrote down the name of the woman next to her, wouldn’t that really sadden the first woman?

Well, I’d have to figure it out on the fly; the whistle blew and we were off. Hi Jessica, I’m Jack. So… what’s your favorite book? Wait, many of the women had written their favorite book at the bottom of their name tags. I wasn’t told to do that. Am I supposed to do that? Also, many of the women had the book with them. Should I take mine out of my pocket? But no one said to do that either. Well, no, focus on the women’s books—always better to be a listener, a question-asker. I also decided that I’d wait until I reached the end of the table to write down any women I liked, ideally when none of them were looking. But what if I forgot one of their names or favorite books? Oh, too much pressure! TWEEEEEEEEEEET!!! It was very nice meeting you, Jessica.

Moved my pea coat one seat down. After three or four women, continually shifting the big coat became rather tiresome. Though the chats were fun and I found myself jotting down lots of book titles and authors. Wait, what was I really here for? Also, I didn’t want to talk about Pastoralia (“The stories are darkly comic, set in the future, but not very far into the future—like, three weeks from now”) with consecutive women, because what if the second woman already heard my schpiel; then I’m no better than some creep in a bar with a tired old line. So I occasionally mixed in High Fidelity, and to the woman who loved E.B. White’s Here Is New York, I went off-script and talked about John McPhee’s The Pine Barrens. (But wait, now they’ll never find me on the scoresheet, right? Because I only listed one favorite? Arrgh.) And all along I’m repeating in my head, “Kristin, number 16, Pride and Prejudice; Kristin, number 16, Pride and Prejudice…”—the only woman who’d made a real impression on me thus far.

TWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEET! Very nice talking with you. Next, please. At the end of the table I abandoned my “write down names now” plan and instead used the slight break in the action to dump my pea coat in the corner. This was despite worries of once again having my iPod stolen from my coat pocket. Still, the dual comfort of: A) not hauling the coat around and B) not having iPod and keys in one pants pocket and phone in the other far outweighed the nagging fear of petty theft. Of course, at table two, a few women asked where my book was and I could only reply, “Oh, it’s… in my jacket… over there.” Did they think I was lying? I felt like I was lying, even though I wasn’t.

I did enjoy catching two women in a bit of deception. They were friends, the table was a man short, so I could speak with both of them simultaneously and we were having a good laugh. Then I asked about the book Ashley was holding, Dining With Sherlock Holmes. Her knowledge of the book seemed a little hinky and I brazenly accused her of… having just pulled it off the rare-books shelf behind her! She was making crap up and I loved it. Ashley fessed up and we all laughed some more. I was happy that not everyone was taking this too seriously.

TWEEEEEET! Kristin, number 16, Pride and Prejudice, don’t forget, don’t forget, “Kristin” with an i….

TWEEEEEET! Staffers circulated, offering more chocolate pralines or to refill our plastic glasses with champagne. Though thirsty, I refused the beverage service. There was a deserted empty glass in front of me, but as I explained to my then-3-minute date, “For all I know, the previous guy had syphilis.” Then, I thought the better of it and added, “You know what, he probably did not have syphilis. I’m sure he was a very nice guy.” We men have a code.

TWEEEEEET! Last round! TWEEEEEEEET! OK, now, open mingling. Talk with whomever you like. Ah-ha, there is that woman who was behind me in line. Laura, says the name tag. I’ll speak with her; that would be nice closure. We’ll fall in love and read books in the park and…

“We were in line together before,” I smoothly stated.

“Were we? Sorry, didn’t notice,” Laura replied.

Seriously? Am I fucking invisible?!? Is that the problem here?

Tweeeeeeeet. Please hand in your forms. Wait, wait, gotta write down: Kristin, number 16, Pride and Prejudice. And, oh what the hell: Laura, her book was titled Justine; I’ll win her over yet. And did that woman who loved Ender’s Game jot down my name earlier? She jotted something down. I’m not really into sci-fi, but she was very pretty and had a nice mellow vibe to her…. I drew a rectangle around “Ender’s Game” on my sheet and wrote next to it, “didn’t get her name.” I hope their algorithm has some fail-safes built in.

Ooh, after I’d already handed in my sheet, I realized that I should’ve taken a photo of all those book titles. At least then I would definitely take something away from the evening. Ummm, let’s see, there was G.K. Chesterton, something about Thursdays, a nightmare. And Flann O’Somebody, a contemporary of James Joyce. Poet Jack Gilbert: That one I remembered, his name one letter off mine, and he’s from Pittsburgh. I should’ve written down more names—women, not authors.

After the official chats were over, I spoke with an attractive bespectacled woman, a young-adult writer, who was very amusing in a sardonic sort of way. Asked about what she was working on. Told her I’d been in the children’s-writing field as well. We agreed to keep in touch, scribbling e-mail addresses on slips of paper. Oh, I wondered, are you on such-and-such’s Y.A. e-mail list? “No,” she said, “I’m just out of college so I really haven’t yet done all the…” Just out of college? But that’s not 30 to 55. Heck, I could’ve graduated college, been born, and still nearly be her age. Oh well, there’s nothing wrong with keeping in touch. I said I’d read a chapter of hers. She’s a nice person; I’m happy to do it.

Now what? People had left, other people stayed. Were we allowed to leave? Supposed to leave? Why were people staying? And happily chatting? Was something else going to happen? Or did they just hit it off with each other? Was it that simple? I suddenly felt like I’ve felt at a million parties: Standing there not talking to anyone; could stand here all night and no one would ever notice. Time to cut my losses. I got in the elevator, went downstairs, browsed the paperbacks but I really have too many unread books at home already. Maybe I’ll see someone down here from up there and we’ll… no. It’s OK, it was a pretty decent time, if a little overwhelming. And hey, maybe I’ll hear from Kristin in a few days.

Thoughts turned to Pastoralia in my pocket as I exited, but it didn’t set off any alarms or elicit suspicion from the guy at the door. A small victory. Checked text messages; my buddy Romall was around the block so I joined him for a slice of pizza. He was off to the movies and I might’ve gone along except, as I said, didn’t bring my glasses. Good to talk with a friend, though.

Walked toward the Lower East Side to see some music instead, a band I’ve loved for years. (Knew about the show but hadn’t mentally committed to it. Wanted to leave open the option of, I don’t know, “hanging out” with a new friend after the thing.) At a corner, I emptied my coat pocket and tossed my extra pizza napkins. Oh shit, was the slip of paper with the writer girl’s e-mail in there? It’s Friday night, and I’m picking through crumpled napkins in a New York City trashcan, coming up empty. OK, no, wait, the paper was in my pants pocket. Whew. You never know. It might be nice to stay in touch.