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Nerve.com
"Of course not," she says, and then turns to the next person in line. She, too, I decide, must have a boyfriend hidden somewhere.
The idea of the "game" gives me pause. Will I be forced into awkward pairings with other Oxytocins? Will I have to explain to a stranger how Oxytocin best represents my relational self?
Because the event is being held at the Brooklyn Brewery, Brooklyn beer of every variety is being handed out for free at a makeshift bar along one end of the warehouse. I get in line while Jon goes to snoop out his hot girl and her maybe-boyfriend.
On the floor of what, most days, is the site of a much less complicated chemical process, singles have been set free to loiter, talk small and, presumably, fall hurriedly in love.
But when I look out across the floor, they're all standing arms-length apart in same-sex pairs. I'm seized by an impulse I haven't felt since middle school — I look around for the cool kids, certain they'll be effortlessly connecting on the other side of the dance floor. But there are no cool kids. Nor, mercifully, is there a dance floor.
Despite this, I manage to half-stumble on someone's foot and lightly knock Jon's beer. It splashes on the leg of the hot girl he spotted earlier.
This is good, I think: interaction.
"Oh, sorry. That's awkward," Jon says, without a trace of sheepishness. "I'm Jon, by the way."
She looks at us both, pauses, and then looks at her man-friend. "A gentleman would get me a napkin," she says.
Without speaking, Jon and I scurry toward the food table. At this early stage in the evening, the food is where the action is. Around the various rolled meats and cubed cheeses, the most hungry and most trepidatious singles have congregated. I begin to ply my face with Parmesan and cold-cut turkey. Jon, three beers beyond me, claims he's "just not hungry."
"But there's guacamole," I say.
"Excuse me," someone cuts in. It's a girl in a tight-fitting black blouse. I wonder if
"I work for a nonprofit," she says. "With the homeless." Very public radio. |
she's had a boob job. "Can you hand me a fork?" she asks.
Jon hands her a fork. She walks away. Jon takes a swig. I chew.
"Was that girl really a public-radio listener?" I ask Jon. I begin to question my noble assumptions about this crowd. Wouldn't a Morning Edition fan shun the tyranny of silicone?
I grab for a bundle of grapes and inadvertently pull a few away from a woman who is not completely unattractive yet isn't quite my type.
"Sorry," I say.
"No, no, go ahead," she says, smiling. "Those really are some grapes."
"Yeah," I say. The grapes, I admit to myself, really are quite good.
"So why are you here? Are you a big Radio Lab fan?" she asks.
"Sure." I say. "I guess so. You?"
"Oh, God, yes. WNYC every morning, Radio Lab every Sunday." Her voice is filled with such enthusiasm that I'm afraid to respond lest my Radio Lab ignorance be exposed.
"So what do you do?" I ask.
"I work for a nonprofit," she says. "With the homeless."
"Oh, that's cool," I say. Very public radio. I almost ask her where she lives but wonder if such a transition would be tactless. It's been a while since I've worn "single" on my sleeve. I've forgotten how easily it can make the simplest interactions incredibly awkward.
Before I recoup my composure, she cries, "There he is! I have to go tell my friends," and scampers off. I notice that everyone in the room is looking toward the bar. The evening's MC, Radio Lab DJ Jad Abumrad, has taken a spot behind a microphone stand.
"The guru of radio-induced love," Jon says to me under his breath.
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