Ever since his “Street Magic” special, I’ve wanted really badly to be David Blaine. He’s a cool cat. When I say I want to ‘be him,’ I don’t just mean that I want to do cool magic tricks. Oh no. I also want to look like him and speak in a monotone. I want the whole Blaine package. He’s got this cool mystic thing going on that I admire. And he’s practical. He doesn’t saw women in half or make the Statue of Liberty disappear. He bites quarters and does card tricks and hangs out with Leo DiCaprio. I appreciate those things. So do women.
I don’t have any pictures of me trapped in a big block of ice or buried alive; if I did I would’ve used one for my profile picture on the dating site I just signed up for. As is, I didn’t know what to use for my profile pic. After deliberating for a few seconds, I decided to go with a photo of me and a donkey (you can see it yourself if you scroll back a few posts!). It’s not a great picture, but I didn’t have anything better. I hoped no one would mistake the donkey for an ex-girlfriend, although, truth be told, some of the girls I’ve been with in the past make the donkey look like Megan Fox. Anyways, I browsed the singles in my area and sent out a few messages. One was to “May,” who stood out from the rest. This one fit all my dating criteria. In other words, she wasn’t overweight.
To my shock, May sent a message back. “Hi Don Quixote,” it said. “You look like a devious little boy in your picture. I love a donkey.”
She loves a donkey?!? I couldn’t believe it. Could the donkey picture be just the thing my love life needed? May and I exchanged a few messages and then she sent me her phone number. She said she wanted to meet up for coffee. I was pumped. And not because I love coffee.
The next day was Valentine’s Day but I texted anyways. She said she was at work and to contact her later, which I did. I felt good, confident. I waited for a reply. A good amount of time passed. Suddenly, it was after ten o’clock at night and I still hadn’t heard back. Finally I got a response: “I am watching magic show. My phone is out of battery.”
It was a perplexing message. A magic show? What was she doing at a magic show? Who was she with? I had the feeling that it had to be a date. I mean, a person doesn’t go to a magic show alone on Valentine’s Day. I pictured May and some loser holding hands and feigning happiness while the magician did his thing. The next day I texted her again. She didn’t reply.
“Is this a Korean girl thing?” I asked C-Batz. “Should I send another text? I think she’s seeing someone.”
“You’re so fucking weird and paranoid,” C-Batz said. “She went to a magic show. What the fuck? Chill out. It doesn’t mean she’s dating someone. What if you do meet up with her eventually? Are you going to get all jealous and start asking her about all the magic shows she’s been to in her life?”
Maybe I would. Maybe I would get flustered and upset if she ever brought up the topic of magic. “Listen,” I’d say. “I know it’s your past, but it still hurts to hear about it.” Or perhaps I’d start getting suspicious and I’d go through her purse, looking for evidence of infidelity. “Hey, I found this in your purse. I think I deserve an explanation.” And there I’d be, standing in the bedroom doorway, holding something damning, like a deck of cards or a rabbit.
Romance is a bit like magic. You have to kind of go with the flow, and they lose their appeal if you start picking away at everything. Thinking too much about either sort of spoils things.
I guess I’ll try texting one more time and then give up. If I don’t hear back I’ll assume, logically, that she was stolen away by David Blaine. Or a guy with a better donkey.