After the whole “fatso” incident, I was more inclined to bend the rules these days. I decided I didn’t want to wait for prolonged periods of time before meeting in person only to wind up being disappointed nor did I wish to meet anyone at a restaurant, bar or lounge for the first time for the very same reason. I didn’t want to be forced into spending time in public with someone for the extended duration of an entire meal or even a painful martini when I knew within seconds that I wanted out and fast. I preferred a more pressure-free encounter where I could leave whenever, within milliseconds should it come to that.

This guy “Dan” and I chatted on the phone for a few hours one night while I perused over a hundred pictures of him on his Facebook page. From what I could tell, I rated him a seven point five on the looks scale and he earned extra points for being all around edgy and cool. A freelance post-production commercial editor with his own laboratory at home, he invited me over to have a look at his studio midday, on a random Sunday. I figured it was a safe time if any, as opposed to evening per say, to visit someone’s live slash work space. Since rape incidents occur more frequently at night coupled with the meager number of Jews convicted such a crime to begin with in comparison to various other denominations, I assumed I’d be safe but took a can of Mace along with me anyway.

It was a sweltering hot afternoon and I arrived at Dan’s doorstep, parched. Immediately, I asked him for some water because I could barely formulate words, I was that thirsty. “Do you mind tap water?” he asked. “Because I’m on the last round of my Brita filter and don’t have time to go buy a new one this week.” I don’t really mind drinking out of the tap, I thought. In fact, I drink tap water at home all the time. But the fact that I wasn’t worth a glass of almost-expiring Brita filter-water really turned me off of this guy, stat.

“Tap is fine,” I said, thinking that maybe I was overreacting to the issue. Water is water at the end of the day, I decided. No biggie. And so I followed him to the kitchen where he poured me a glass of water from the sink and then proceeded to fix himself a tall glass of Brita filtered water. After chugging my lukewarm tumbler to the last drop, I wiped my mouth and asked him, “So, you don’t drink tap water?” He replied, “No,” without any shame. Feeling insulted, vindictive and mean, I told him, “You know, Brita collects all the same grime and bacteria in its filter anyway so every time you pour yourself a glass of water, you’re actually compounding the amount of crap you think you’ve filtered from the tap in each glass.” I wasn’t exactly sure if this was true but I’d once heard a rumor about it and since “Dan” was acting like such a cheapskate sheister, I wanted to scare him a little bit. “That’s bullshit,” he protested, putting his precious Brita back in the fridge. “Anyway, you want to see my studio?”

Hell yes I wanted to see his studio. That’s why I came over to begin with, douche bag. Especially now that “Dan” lost all his charm points there was pretty much nothing else I wanted to do at his house except see his studio.

And his studio was awesome and totally worth the drive into Hollywood. No wonder he couldn’t afford a new Brita filter – he spent all his money on electronics, synthesizers, computers and gadgets of which I still have no clue of what purpose they serve.

I got bored really fast though when he started showing me his entire work portfolio. “This isn’t show and tell,” I wanted to inform him. I thought my yawning was a pretty good indicator of how interesting I felt this all was. But apparently, “Dan” wasn’t picking up on my lack of enthusiasm.

“Do you want to see my very first reel I ever made in college?” he asked about an hour later. “No, not really. I’m hungry,” I answered. “Where’s a good place to eat around here?”

“Whole Foods,” he told me. I liked the sound of that. A guy with good eating habits. He was earning points again. We walked about five minutes up the street. Along the way he felt the need to tell me his ex-girlfriend used to work there. Why does he think I should know this? As if I cared. Was he trying to make me jealous? Because I think my job as a writer is a lot more impressive than being a cashier at an organic grocery market. Anyway, I stopped myself from over-analyzing the situation and focused instead on what I was going to eat. I know they make great soup.

We both ended up making ourselves salads from the self-serve bar and lined up to pay, him in front of me. If things were going downhill before, they were pretty much about to hit avalanche status in moments to come. The guy’s sheer, complete and utter lack of manners or gentlemanly accord was reaching a boiling point. While in line, “Dan” pulled a little discount card out from his wallet and smirked. “My ex-girlfriend gave me this card. I get twenty-five percent off everything here. One of the bonuses of having dated someone who worked here.” I rolled my eyes. “Cool,” I said.

Now here’s the official kicker – at the cashier, “Dan” paid for himself using his discount card (not that I expected him to pay a few dollars for my salad after I spent ten bucks on gasoline driving down to his crusty ass apartment but I regress). Then, when it was my turn to pay, I eyed “Dan” insinuating for him to pass over the discount card that he so casually put back in his wallet and jacket without a care in the world. And so I paid full price for my salad. But it’s not the full price that made me hate him. It was “Dan’s” total disregard for equity and fairness, his lack of desire to make any sort of pleasing impression on me from the get-go and in general, I couldn’t stand his irrepressible frugality. He was totally cheap. As cheap as they come. From thereon, I decided I would retaliate by implementing my own cheap use of words for the remaining duration of our date together. He would get no more than one word answers from me. That’s all. A simple “yes” or “no”. We walked back to his apartment and he talked the whole way so I didn’t really get a chance to use any of my “yes” or “no’s” on him. But I knew I would eventually get my chance.

“Do you like your salad?” he asked as we ate in his living room. “Yes.” “Do you want to hear any more of my music?” Obviously, “No.” I was even so decidedly adamant about not speaking more than a word at a time to this walking ball sack that when I wanted to leave I just shrugged, pointed at the door, smiled, got up and walked toward it. He seemed to be somewhat insulted by my abrupt departure.

“That’s it? You’re leaving?” he asked, confused. “Yep,” I nodded. “Well, aren’t you going to say goodbye, or I had a nice time or… or something?” “Bye,” I said with a fake smile.

As I walked toward my car, he stood on his front porch and screamed, “Aren’t you going to take your salad with you?” What salad? I thought. I’d eaten it all. So I rolled down the window of my car and yelled, “Nope!” Tires screeching, I drove away and didn’t look back.

When I got home, “Dan” called me up and I answered the phone. “Hello?” Instantly, he began to ramble. “We really left on a terrible note. I have a feeling I did something wrong and I wonder what it is. So I’d appreciate it you could tell me what the problem is.” I thought to myself, how to summarize this all in one single word and maintain the continuity of my self-promised cheap use of dialogue with this waste of a date? “Cheapskate,” I said and hung up.

The thing is, I don’t need anyone to take me out to a fancy restaurant or pay for any of my meals but if someone can’t help me get a discount on a five-dollar salad, then all I can say is, “Next.”

Do you think I was overreacting?