It was a sunny Sunday. Everyone was in the park. Picnicking. Reading. BBQing. Playing volleyball.
I was experiencing the first symptoms of bronchitis and laying in bed.
Do you want to go to Mister Sunday, Fi? A bunch of us are going; it’s going to be a good one today.
Hmm…I’m actually not feeling…Yes. Yes, I’ll go.
Mister Sunday is an outdoor dance party in Brooklyn that thrives in the middle of the afternoon. People of all ages come out to groove to the beats of DJs Eamon Harkin and Justin Carter while sipping on beer and wine and snacking on Brooklyn-based grub. I once had a dance off there with a guy who was wearing gold spandex. I won.
With the sun shining and a few hours to spare before I had to get ready, I decided to pack up a pillow and a blanket so I could nap in the park. The sun will help me feel better for sure.
I put my blanket down, took my shoes off, and laid my head on the pillow. Ahhh…serenity no—. What is that? Ouch. Ugh. Eep. I was getting bitten my mosquitos that were the size of cats. I laid my head down again and OOF! Ow. Ugggghhhh. That’s it. I should be in bed. I started to pack up my things and then out of nowhere the sky opened up and sheets of rain started to pour on us.
Everyone began to feverishly gather their things and run for cover. The nearest spot was an arch that also served as a passageway. We all bolted for it.
A man with a guitar began to strum loudly and sing folk tunes, which immediately had Brooklyn dancing. The park goers, drenched from the monsoon, seemed to be having a grand ‘ol time. It was a pretty sweet moment.
I looked to my left and spotted this one guy who seemed extra jolly. He had long dreads, a nose piercing, and a beer in his hand. He was cheers’ing all those around him. Hmm…he’s kinda cute. I wish I were hanging with those guys.
About 15 minutes later, the rain stopped and everyone started to clear out slowly. Walking out from under the passageway involved wading through huge pools of water that came up to most people’s ankles. First thought: This would be a great Instagram pic.
Dreads stood next to me and also started taking photos. I peered over at his phone. He was good at this. We jokingly compared shots and he gave me some tips. We talked for a bit and then he asked me what I had planned for the rest of the day.
I told him that I was going to a dance party in a few. He told me that he was hopping on a bus back to Charlotte–where he lives–later on. (No, I have no clue how one takes a bus from Brooklyn to Charlotte or if it’s even possible.) He seemed quite interested in Mister Sunday and asked if he could meet me there before leaving New York. Sure! We exchanged numbers. I had a date.
Cough, cough. Sniffle.
By the time I arrived to the locale, Dreads had already been there for more than an hour. I was worried because he had gone alone. But when I found him, it seemed like he was the king of the party. He knew so many people already. And when I waved at him, he didn’t recognize me. At all.
I introduced him to my friends and within about 30 seconds I realized he might be a little (read: a lot) strange. Shit. A glass of wine was in order. “I’ll be back,” I said.
Booze in hand, my friends and I squeezed our way onto the dance floor. Dreads was nowhere to be found. I’ll find him later.
Not too long after, I spotted him. Wait a minute…Is that Dreads? I looked across the dance floor and saw a guy who looked a lot like the guy I met at the park. But he was kissing a girl who was wearing a bicycle helmet. Didn’t he just get here? How do they know each other? They held each other’s hands, he quickly looked around, she grabbed her bike, tightened her helmet, and they left.
My phone buzzed right after I lost sight of him. It was a text from Dreads: “Looked for you everywhere. Waiting in the line for the bathroom.”
My friend grabbed my phone from me and responded: “Have fun with Helmet Head!”
His response: “Huh?”
What. just. happened. Was that him? Did he have a twin? But if it wasn’t him, where was he? Did I just get ditched or did I ditch him? Eh. Whatever. I was sick and had little room in my cloudy head for figuring this out. So I left it at that and danced my bronchitis away for the new few hours.
…I spent the next two days sick in bed.
Moral of the story: If you meet a guy with dreadlocks who lives in Charlotte, watch out…he may ditch you for a chick with a helmet. But tell him I say hi. Oh, and if you’re sick, maybe a dance party isn’t the place to recover. Say “yes” to rest, kids. (Still had tons of fun, though.)