“May I have an iced chai latté please? Made with almond milk.” I was enjoying the tranquility of my Saturday morning, so I decided to go against my typical caffeine charged americano. A few minutes later the barista sets my drink on the counter, and I snag a table outside.
It’s a beautiful day, and everyone knows it. Parents are letting their kids off those weird backpack leashes. Free at last, free at last! The horns from angry drivers are being honked politely. Even the pigeons and squirrels aren’t bothering anybody.
I grab my journal from my tote, and commence to scanning the passer-bys. It’s a great day for people watching so I’m sure I’ll see someone that captures my interest soon. There weren’t any prospects around me though. Two guys on computers to my left – boring. And to my right, an older guy reading the newspaper. Not interested. I keep looking around, waiting for my muse to appear. I see a street artist down the block. He’s doing live painting. Ok, I can work with that.
About 10 minutes into my writing, the older man to my right asks if I will watch his stuff for him while he goes back into the coffeeshop. Of course I do. It’s an unspoken law of coffeeshops. At least, it’s unspoken if you’re a regular like me. “Thou shalt take care of thine neighbors things if they get up to use the restroom or order more coffee.” It’s just code. While he’s away, a new couple approaches and is about to sit down at his table. I tell them that there’s actually someone sitting there, so they squeeze into the table behind his.
He returns a few minutes later with a refill on his iced coffee. He sees that his chair has been moved a little, and there’s now less space in his sitting area than before. He also sees the new couple squeezed into the table behind him.
“Yeah, they thought your table was free,” I explain to him, clearing up the confusion.
“Ahh hah, thanks.” He responds, wearing a short smile.
He’s tall, maybe 6’2 or 6’3. He’s wearing a white polo (RL brand), pastel shorts, Sperry boat shoes, and a faded, blue Nautica baseball cap. You could’ve bought his whole outfit on the same street in Georgetown. But I bet he probably shops out of a catalog. He has the type of skin that if he stays out in the sun too long, even if wearing 80 SPF, he’ll be a fleshy lobster within two hours. He has a kind face though. His blue eyes, heavy with a sort of indiscernible sadness, crinkle at the edges. Based on his wrinkles he looks to be in his later 50’s, but time isn’t kind to the Caucasians so maybe he’s a little younger. Overall, his entire aesthetic screams of, “I only eat sandwiches with the crust cut off.” I’m surprised he’s even spending time in my neighborhood. He looks out of place. His club hangs out in the suburbs of Bethesda, the apartments by Capitol Hill, or the row homes in Georgetown. What is he doing in my artsy, colorful, “urban” 14th and U? This isn’t his set.
He sits down and grabs the newspaper, folding it open to the page he left off on. I try and go back to my writing, but now he’s on my mind. Why is he here? There’s no way he lives in this part of NW. Who drives all the way to U Street just to go to a Peet’s? There’s a Peet’s in Georgetown. Every couple minutes he sighs and sets his newspaper down, taking a drink from his iced coffee and looking out into the street.
His Eeyore like energy is starting to rub off on me. I’m getting impatient. The more I analyze this guy the more I need to know his story. He’s out of place, and clearly something is bothering him because he’s just been looking out into space now for about 20 minutes. What is he thinking about??
I can’t take it anymore.
“Hi,” I say tentatively. He doesn’t hear me, or doesn’t recognize that I’m talking to him. I try again.
“Uhh hey there,” I repeat, waving my hand to get his attention.
He looks at me, “Oh, hello.” He appears a little confused, but smiles all the same.
I laugh nervously. “Heh, yeah hi. Um, not to intrude, but I couldn’t help observing that you’ve been staring out into the street for a while now. It just seems like you have something on your mind. Are you alright?”
The man’s eyes grow as I finish my statement.
He puffs out a breath, tilting his head a little, revealing the shocking amusement one would feel when finding out that a stranger has been analyzing them.
“Puhhh uh, haha, well – yes. Uh, yes I am thinking about some things haha.” He chuckles from the awkwardness.
“Yeah it kinda seemed like that…” I trail off, taking a drink of my latté, breaking eye contact. I can tell he’s uncomfortable, so I ease off.
But a few minutes later he strikes up.”Well since you’ve asked…Can I get your perspective on something? As a woman?” he asks, tentatively.
As a woman?? Oh. Now I am REALLY intrigued. What could this be about? I glance at his left hand. Not married I see. This should be interesting. I’m salivating already.
I put my journal down, turning to him, “Yeah, go for it.”
“Ok haa..uh so. This weekend a woman came to visit me…” He launches into his story.
Come to find out, this guy has been on an online dating site for months. In October, he was in Philadelphia for a work trip. While in Philadelphia, him and this girl matched on the site. But because he lives in D.C. they never got to meet. However, even though he had left Philly, they chose to keep talking. In February, he finally asked if she would like to come visit him for a weekend. She said yes. And so he put the plans together for her to come in April. He bought the plane ticket for her and everything. This weekend was the expected trip. She got here Friday. She arrived in the afternoon, and he picked her up from the airport. Everything was going great. Conversation was endless, no awkward silences. He brought her back to his apartment, and she got settled. They had a nice lunch together. Everything was going really going well. He had to leave for a few hours to go to work. He’s a surgeon at the Georgetown Hospital. But as soon as he finished up, he was coming right back and they were going to spend the rest of the weekend together. They would go to museums, have nice meals, go sailing on his boat – he had planned everything out.
This is where it gets interesting. When he got back from work Friday evening, she was gone. She left a note saying she was sorry, but she had to go. No other explanation.
“So all the note said was that she was sorry? No other details, no emergency? Nothing??” I ask, confusion written all over my face.
“Yep.” He nods.
“Wow.” Even I’m a little blown away by this. Usually I’m totally for people ghosting each other if they’re not feeling a vibe, but given the circumstances this was a little crazy. He deserved at least an explanation.
“Have you reached out to her?” I prod.
“Yeah..but she hasn’t responded to any of my calls or texts. I just don’t get it. I don’t know where I went wrong. I thought she was having a great time, and then poof. I leave for just a few hours to go to the hospital, and when I get back – gone. Just like that. Not even an in person goodbye. I just can’t believe it.”
I’m stunned as well. I don’t know what to say.
After a couple minutes I respond.
“Well…Here’s how I see it. She was really excited by the spontaneity of it all, and let the excitement of this trip blind her actual thoughts. So when she was here, and finally had time by herself when you went to work, she was left alone to think about what was actually happening. That you bought her plane ticket, and then left her alone in your apartment – and it hit her that this was all too much and she freaked out and had to leave. I don’t know, maybe she realized that she feels like she doesn’t know you well enough or long enough yet for you to be buying her a plane ticket and for her to be spending the weekend with you. Maybe she felt like this was all too much too soon, and you could be a serial killer or something.”
My explanation sits there for a couple minutes. Marinating.
He finally responds, “Yeah..maybe. I don’t know..But yeah, now you know. This is why I’ve been staring out into the street.” He laughs sadly.
I feel for him, I do. It’s hard – the not knowing. The wondering if it was you, if you did something to upset the person, or if it was really just them.
I tell him I’m sorry. He nods in appreciation.
“My name is Richard, by the way.”
“Bella, nice to meet you,” I respond, smiling. He smiles back.
I don’t get any writing done, because we end up talking for the next hour and a half. I ask him what he’s doing on U Street, if he works and lives in Georgetown. (I was right). Apparently, this is his favorite Peet’s. Then that leads into a longer discussion on gentrification, social welfare, and class issues. I think he was hesitant to get into more heated debate with me, because it’s a delicate place to be in when you’re the well-off white man who lives in Georgetown, talking to the black girl who studies political science at Howard University. He didn’t want to have that fight today. I can tell he leans politically conservative, but I think he’s more of a John McCain Republican than a Mike Pence, so that’s a relief. We talk about how long we’ve been in D.C. and why we chose to come here. He’s originally from Ohio. Blah blah. Surprisingly, the conversation flows effortlessly.
I check my phone. It’s almost 1pm, and my frozen fruit that I use to make smoothies is now a mushy mess. It’s time for me to go home. I start grabbing my things, signaling my departure.
“Gotta go?” he asks.
“Yeahhh, I need to get these groceries home, and do the rest of the typical Sunday things. Homework, cleaning, laundry etc.” I respond.
“Ahh ok. Well, I really enjoyed talking to you. Thanks for listening earlier, and providing your insight. I appreciate it. And you helped take my mind off of what happened,” he says sincerely.
“Oh yeah, not a problem.” I chuckle, “Honestly, I just love people-watching. So if you hadn’t looked so sad and confused, I probably wouldn’t have talked to you.”
He laughs.
“Well Bella, I’d like to talk with you again sometime if you don’t mind. Take my number? Maybe we could get dinner or drinks.”
When he proposes this my mind goes blank for a second. It hadn’t occurred to me that he was interested in me, in that way at least. I thought I was just the friendly stranger. Also, he doesn’t strike me as the type of white guy who would be interested in brown girls. I thought he was into “Rebeccas” or “Katies”. But here he was…asking me on a date.
Now it occurs to me that I have some serious power in this little situation I’ve gotten myself into. This all started out innocent, but now that I analyze a little further the pieces of the puzzle come together. This man is a whole surgeon at Georgetown Hospital, lives in Georgetown, and has a damn boat. This man has Gatsby money, compared to me. And this man is older, and more importantly, alone. Lonely. And this man just asked me to dinner. Interesting, indeed.
“Ok Richard,” I say, lifting my lips into a coy smile. “I’ll take your number.”
I hand him my phone, and he types his number in. I save his contact as, Richard The Doctor.
I tell him to have a good rest of his Sunday and try not to linger too much on the girl. I feel his eyes watch me walk away.
As I make my way home, I ponder what just happened and what I’m going to do. Did I just find myself a sugar daddy? Because Richard The Doctor definitely has sugar daddy potential. Am I going to be a sugar baby? Am I capable of being a sugar baby? Can I be a “strong independent black woman” and still be a sugar baby? Or do those two identities not coincide? What does being a sugar baby entail? Can I negotiate the arrangements? I really just want someone to buy my groceries, and some cute clothes from time to time. That’s not so much to ask for, right? Maybe take care of some of those student loans too, while you’re at it?
I roll his image over in mind. He’s not fat, but he has dad bod for sure. Could I have sex with him? I’m not sexually attracted to him in the slightest, but I see the potential. Or, at least, I could make myself see the potential. I have always wanted to have sex with an older guy…in a George Clooney type of way. Butttt, I mean c’monnn, the man has a boat for Christ’s sake. A boat! None of these college boys I’ve been talking to have a damn boat! Jeesh! At the very least, I could go to dinner with him. No drinks because then he’d inevitably find out that I’m not 21 and that would probably scare him off. Oh it would be such a nice dinner too, I’d eat so good that night. For free too obviously, cause duh. His surgeon bank account isn’t gonna be hurt by a night of fine dining for two. Some restaurant on the waterfront with a beautiful view of the Potomac. At sunset. Yes, perfect, and then we’d conclude the night on his sailboat. Perhaps then I could take part in some wine, cause of course he’d have a bottle and offer me some. And in return? Well, everyone would see him with a beautiful young girl. He’d have a great night of fun, interesting conversation, and for a moment he would forget that he’s 50 something years old, alone. I could provide that for him. I could bring him joy. If he wanted to initiate other things…well, I don’t know. I’m getting ahead of myself. I’ll cross that bridge if it ever arrives.
As I walk home, I put together a message.
“Hey Richard, it’s Bella. The girl you bared your soul too at Peet’s.” Send.
I’m still reviewing all the details of what happened as I get back to my dorm and start putting my groceries away. I take a break to open up my computer and do some research. I don’t know his last name. So all I put in the search bar is, “Richard Georgetown Hospital surgeon.” However, Richard is a really popular name among the Caucasians so I take a different route. I go directly to the Georgetown Hospital website and then search for him that way, scrolling through the directory of surgeons. Eventually I find him. Wow, he needs to update his photo, because in this photo his hair is still brown, and more of it still remains on his head. Jeesh. But I guess he was kind of cute back in the day, in a bland way. I keep looking at the photo, trying to see if I can make myself attracted to him. I send his picture to my closest friends, letting them know what happened.
They respond within seconds:
“No. You. Did. Not. YAAASSS YOU GOT YOURSELF A SUGARDADDY BISHHHH YAASSSSS.”
“Bella…I can’t believe you took his number! Why?? Omg.”
“Lol girl you’re crazy. Idk it could be cool. Why not? Just be careful.”
“Ew..he’s not even cute. Girl, bye. Have yourself a nice dinner, but leave it at that.”
I continue my casual stalk. I mean, if I’m going to go on a date with this guy I need to know more. Apparently he started at Georgetown Hospital in 1987. I gulp. Fighting my gag reflex, I do some quick math. Yeah so that would make him around 56, give or take a few years, if he followed the normal pipeline of Bachelor’s degree, straight to Med School. Wow. 56. I mean that’s basically like going on a date with my Dad. Ok, now I’m feeling nauseous. …yikes. He’s a gastrointestinal specialist. Why that field? I wonder. Why isn’t he married? Was he married at one point, but then got divorced because he works all the time and the relationship couldn’t survive his busy schedule? I make up his back story.
I think about our potential date again. We would go to dinner somewhere in my territory, so I can be more comfortable. Chaplin’s maybe. We’d share an appetizer. It would be casual. It has to be casual, because if it was expensive then I would really start to feel bad.
My text ringtone interrupts my strategizing. I check my phone. It’s him.
“Hey, it’s Richard.”
I roll my eyes. Ughhhh, not cute and a bad texter? Like duh, of course I know it’s you Richard, you’re the one who put your number in my phone. Jeesh. It’s going to be a lot of work to feign like I like this man, just for a boat ride. Mm..I don’t know.
I don’t respond just yet. I have to weigh over if I want to make this leap or not, because once I go on a date with this man – that’s it. People will see me out in public with him. It will clearly look strange. An older white man with this young, beautiful, brown girl in a romantic, nighttime, dinner setting. Oh I don’t know anymore…I don’t want people seeing me like that. I don’t care if they’re all strangers and don’t know me at all, that’s just not the image I ever want to portray. It would be different if I actually had feelings for him, but I don’t. So internally I’ll know that the whole thing is contrived and I’m just using him. If I set up these plans to go on this date the relationship enters a new realm of “being something”. That something? All gray area. Not a clue. But there’s the issue of what it could evolve into, and as much as I want to be the girl who doesn’t give a damn and can entertain an older, lonely man for his money; I know I’m not that girl.
DAMN. Why I gotta have a conscience??
I let his text sit. And sit. And sit. All of Sunday passes and I never respond. He doesn’t send another message either. Monday goes by. Tuesday arrives. I could still text him. I know exactly what I would say too. I would keep it fun, casual. “Hey if you’re free Friday night let’s go to this sushi place I know.” He would say yes of course, or suggest a different day because of his work schedule. It would be too easy.
But I knew I wasn’t going to text him. I just couldn’t. Although, knowing how to manipulate men comes easily to me (they’re helpless), I just can’t do it. I feel bad. And I think Richard knew too. Although I’m the one that never responded back to his text, I think he knew not to send another message initiating a date because he knew as well as I that it just wasn’t right. He’s too old. I’m too young. Our lives are too different. It was just weird. There was no situation in which it wouldn’t come off as him being a sugar daddy. I think he regretted even giving me his number in the first place. It was an action done in a moment of desperation, coming off of a depressing weekend. He should’ve just left it as, The Day He Opened Up to The Nice Outspoken Girl at Peet’s.
But now here I am having met Richard The Doctor, the gastrointestinal surgeon at Georgetown who has a boat and could’ve been my SugarDaddy but won’t be my SugarDaddy because my moral compass won’t allow it.
Shit.
22 and Counting 