THE BIG SHOT
For a 23-year-old single girl living in Williamsburg, it often seems like there are endless possibilities for romance. Whether you’re looking for that refined gentleman at Hotel Delmano, a shaggy hipster at Union Pool, or just someone to share a chilidog and Jenga with at The Levee, this Brooklyn enclave is teeming with attractive specimens. It shouldn’t be surprising, though, that finding a decent one in the bunch is no slight task. After a year and a half living here, my experiences with the opposite sex have devolved into perpetual punch lines within my inner circle. From moody models and music industry VPs to starving hipsters and racist foreigners, I have literally seen (and no, not necessarily done) it all. This column aims to shed a little light on the never-ending carousel ride that is dating in The ‘Burg.
The Big Shot
It took me quite some time to adjust to my humble new Williamsburg digs, especially coming from the materialistic bubble that is Orange County. I did everything I could to escape the neighborhood at first, seeking solace in the glamorous cobblestone streets of Manhattan’s Meatpacking District (I know, I know). Hot spots such as Tenjune, Marquee, Cain and Home became my go-to spots for a “rockin’ good time” (I am literally cringing as I type this). How did I come to know these fine establishments? Glad you asked!
I moved to New York as a recent, self-entitled graduate; I was out to make this city my bitch. After the first week, my dress collection had tripled in size, I had decided that air-conditioning was for pussies, and I was about to interview with one of the top record labels in the country. Through an exchange of emails, my potential boss insisted we meet for “get-to-know-you” drinks; he didn’t care for resumes. Unfortunately, when I met him, I discovered that he was both incredibly handsome and incredibly single. About twenty minutes into my berry Bellini at Rose Bar, he informed me that he had no intention of hiring me—he would much rather pounce on me. From there he took me to Tenjune, where we danced to the likes of Lynyrd Skynyrd and Young Jeezy, and I soon managed to throw my better judgment out the limousine window. The night ended with Coronas on the rooftop of his luxury high-rise and promises of weekends in the Hamptons…but soon enough, it became clear that my dalliance with The Big Shot was going to be anything but big news.
What started with limousines and concerts at Hammerstein soon degenerated into 3:00AM text messages. Before you could say, “I’m with the label,” I had become his go-to booty call. My pride was injured for about a week, and then his incessant digital solicitations became downright offensive. For the better part of a year, this Lothario’s number would pop up once or twice a month, always at 4:00AM, always with some debonair lines about “joining the party at his place.” At first, I would suggest that he contact me during a sober hour to make actual plans, or something crazy like that, to which I would receive another month of cellular silence. There came a point when I actually thought, and hoped, that he had disappeared, most likely to pursue a full-time commitment to a certain powdery Columbian export; but alas, come 5:45AM on a random Wednesday morning, my former lover resurfaced in a big way. After ten minutes of textual pleading from The Big Shot, it became evident that letting him down gently wasn’t cutting it. As soon as I could type out “DEA and the war on drugs” in predictive text, he retreated back to his Murray Hill hole.
Although The Big Shot has not completely disappeared—nothing like the holidays to give a guy some narcotic-induced nostalgia!—my experience with him taught me an incredible amount about the men in this city. You really can’t expect much from a 32-year-old guy who tries to woo you at Tenjune and keeps his medicine cabinet stocked with Perricone eye cream, Crest White Strips and Trimspa; this man will never be your boyfriend, nor should he be. Sure, my romantic life still involves unreturned text messages—and I might relish in compliments from construction workers more than is strictly necessary—but I’m beginning to get a grasp of life in the city. With the $200 bucks I made selling my slut dresses at Beacon’s Closet, I stayed nice and cool by my new A.C. unit, and quickly realized that perhaps the music industry just wasn’t ready for me.
NEXT: The racist rugby player from Down Under.
