New York Stories

I meandered aimlessly around the small café of a bookstore on Astor Place, hoping that during one of my laps someone would have the decency to get up from their table and give it to me.

Instead a man motioned me over to him. My gut told me to ignore him, to turn and run far away, but he looked innocent enough: he was sitting with a woman who I presumed was his wife. The idealist in me figured he and his wife were leaving and they were going to offer me their table. So, I went.

"What does SJM mean to you?" He asked.

"Excuse me?" I replied, perplexed, trying to figure out if he'd accidentally meant SJP, as in, Sarah Jessica Parker.

"Have you ever tried online dating?" he continued.

"It's not really my thing, actually. Wait, SJM...single Jewish male?!" I blurted out.

"Yes! See, we have a son, and he's 24. He's tried the whole online dating thing, and it just didn't work out for him. He has horror stories you wouldn't believe! So we've watched him struggle in the dating arena, and frankly, we don't know how he's supposed to meet anyone! So, we're trying this approach now."

"Umm, does he know you're doing this?" I asked. "Because if my parents did this, I'd probably kill them."

"We've done it a few times, here and there, but when we saw you, we just knew we had to approach you. You have a very friendly smile and pleasant demeanor, you don't see that very often in New York."

"Thanks," I responded, half flattered, half scared.

And then, against my better judgement, I conversed with my future in-laws for over half an hour. By the end of our chat, they told me that they didn't care if I met their son or not, but that I absolutely had to keep in touch with them. They invited me to their home for every Jewish holiday from now until eternity and went on to proclaim themselves my New York family.

"If you need anything at all, you just call us. If you're sick, we'll take you to the hospital. If you need a ride somewhere, we'll offer you our car. If you need a kidney replacement, you can have mine."

They said they'd never met anyone so amenable before, and that it was a lovely surprise. They didn't want me to leave and invited me to join them for dinner that evening. Through a plastic smile, I politely declined. By the time I'd gotten away from my overbearing new family members, I'd forgotten all about their son they wanted to set me up with-their reason for approaching me in the first place.

The next morning at work, I opened my e-mail and found a letter from my new dad. He went on about how much he and his wife enjoyed meeting me and that they sincerely hoped we could all stay in touch. He reiterated that our meeting was so special because cheerful people like me are a dime a dozen. And he ended his ode by telling me, again, that they will gladly be my NYC family.

I was appalled. I hadn't given this man my e-mail address. He'd obviously Internet stalked me, but, as strange as I felt about the situation, I did what everyone would deem the unthinkable: I replied.

I sent a very brief e-mail back thanking him for his kind words. He took that as his cue to figure out my work number and call me at the office that same afternoon. And then call, and e-mail, and call, and e-mail, every hour until I finally responded.

He desperately wanted to talk to me because he wanted to impart some imperative career advice, as well as invite me to his wife's surprise birthday dinner that evening. He told me that after he and his wife gave birth to their son (son? What son?), they wanted to have another child-a daughter-but sadly, his wife was unable to bear any more children. And the clincher's when he told me our meeting was "B'sheret"-destiny; I was the daughter they never had but desperately wanted.

In a fit of panic I slammed down the phone and immediately dialed my mom-my real mom.

"Mom, don't get scared, but I think I might be getting kidnapped. Seriously, you should come to New York now. You might have to fight for me."

OK, so maybe I had let things go just a tad too far.

Then I did what any calm, rational and highly professional person would do in this situation: I ran crying into my boss's office.

I knew my boss had the one thing I was severely lacking-a backbone. She'd help me weasel my way out of this eerily stalkerish situation that I'd smiled my way into. She stood over my shoulder as I composed and sent an intensely concise, extremely cutting e-mail.

I was mortified, but that's when I felt it; all of a sudden a backbone replaced my previously flimsy spine. And for the first time in 26 years, I felt like I was in control of my life.

Needless to say, the date with their son never happened, and these days, I am a little more conservative with my smile.

Read more by Marissa Kristal at Mariskris.blogspot.com.