Hurricane Dylan

Posted on November 9, 2012


“Is somebody there?”

This story is from Emily, a 26-year-old pharmaceutical consultant in NYC, as told to Raz:

I live in a studio apartment alone. A couple weeks back, my super had been in my apartment making some repairs, and on his way out, locked a lock on my door that I don’t have a key to. This was not a fun discovery after a late night at work. As I was trying desperately to get into my apartment, a stranger approached. He introduced himself as Dylan, said he lived upstairs, and successfully helped me figure out what had happened and even waited with me for my super to get there. He wasn’t generally my type at all (a little too nerdy), but what a gentleman! Plus, we’d had a pretty decent conversation during our wait, so when he asked, I gave him my number and decided to give him a shot.

His texts and calls started the next day. I was busy at work so couldn’t get back to him right away, but after a few days had passed and my inbox was full, I didn’t even want to get back to him. This was too much! I’d only just met him and he was coming on way too strong. This kind of persistence was not sexy. In my mind, Dylan’s chance was over.

Then came Hurricane Sandy. After one night with no power, I moved uptown to stay with a friend. During the two days that I was homeless, Dylan texted six times, he called three times, left two voicemails, messaged me on Facebook, and even sent me an email through LinkedIn. Enough was enough!

By the third blackout night, I was exhausted and in desperate need of my own bed, so I decided to spend the night back at my apartment despite the lack of electricity.

I think I’d underestimated how dark (and cold!) it would actually be. Once inside my building, even with the help of the light of my phone, I was feeling my way up the stairs. Then, I heard voices a couple yards in front of me, so I held the light a little higher. It was Dylan and some guy I’d never seen before. Before I could lower my phone, Dylan recognized me. “Emily??” He asked. “Where have you been? I’ve been trying to contact you!”

“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t really have phone service or internet.” A valid excuse, I thought, considering the situation. (He didn’t know I’d been staying somewhere with workable WiFi…not to mention the weeks before the storm that I’d also been ignoring him.)

“I’m just so glad you’re alright,” he said.

“Well, I’m exhausted. Better head to bed.”  That wasn’t a lie. I was craving my comforter.

I felt my way to my apartment, and I’d just changed into my sweats when I heard a knock on my door. No way, I thought. No one’s that bad at taking a hint. Sure enough, when I opened my door a crack to peek out, it was Dylan.

“Heyyyy!” he waved. “It’s me, your neighbor.”

He’d reached a whole new level of annoying, and, quite frankly, I was a little scared. I mumbled some excuse about getting in bed and slammed the door.

Poor guy. I hate being a bitch, but I worry that he was so clueless that anything subtler wouldn’t have made a difference.


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