This pianist is just way too eager to play a duet
For months I had been hearing beautiful piano music as I walked my dog in my new neighborhood. Finally one day I asked a neighbor where the music was coming from. “From that house,” she said, pointing to a home cater-corner from hers. “An Italian concert pianist lives there. Would you like to meet him?”
Like most women, I have a weak spot for musicians. When she added, “He is yummy,” that decided it. “Sure,” I said, and she took me across the street to meet “Guido.”
He seemed like a nice enough guy, if a bit energetic and enthusiastic. Not really my type, but maybe he could help me with my piano playing, I thought. We exchanged cards.
I finished walking the dog, and when I got home, there was already a message from Guido: “Hey Samantha, it was great meeting you. It’s always great to meet an attractive new neighbor. If you need anything, let me know. There’s a great coffee shop near here; maybe we could go sometime.”
Well, that was flattering. I left for work.
Phone rings at work. It’s Guido.
“Will you meet me for coffee tomorrow?”
Me: “Um, OK.” We agree to meet from 11:30 to noon. He has to leave for a gig by noon.
I get to the coffee shop at 11:40. He is waiting. He buys me a latte and we chat. Rather, he chats. He lays all his cards on the table. And it is a double-deck.
“I’ve been divorced for six years and really, all I’m interested in is having sex with as many women as possible. I have a problem with monogamy,” he says. Charming!
Next, he says he is a compulsive gambler who flies to Vegas once a week. Then he tells me all the psychotropic medications he’s on. I’m thinking, this guy is breaking all the rules of Therapy 101.
And clearly, he is a player in more ways than one.
He leaves for his gig. I go to work a little later. Where the phone rings.
“It’s Guido. I’m calling from the studio. I just can’t stop thinking about you.”
“Oh?”
“Can I take you to Geoffrey’s in Malibu?”
I don’t think this is a good idea. But the little Devil Samantha appears on my shoulder and says, “What harm could one incredibly expensive dinner do?”
“Well, OK,” I say, “but I can’t go till a week from Thursday” -- hoping he’ll have cooled his jets by then. He agrees.
At home that night, there is not one, not two, not three, but four messages from him. This guy is like Pepe Le Pew on speed.
The Little Accountant Samantha appears on my shoulder and says: “Risk clearly outweighs benefit here. Withdraw funds and invest elsewhere.”
The next morning, when I know he is at the studio, I call and leave a message: “You are moving way, way too fast. You’re scaring me. You need to back off a bit.”
When I get home from work that night, there is not one, not two, but three messages. “I’m sorry, you’re right,” he says on the first. “I just got really excited. You know, I’m a guy. But I’m like an average guy times 1,600.... I won’t call you again. I’ll wait for you to call me.”
Beep. “I know I said I wouldn’t call you again, but I feel like you got the wrong impression of me. I’m really not a scary guy. It’s just this transition period from my divorce. I have all of these issues I’m dealing with. I won’t call you again....”
Beep. “I know I said I wouldn’t call you again. But I was really hoping we could just go to lunch sometime and talk about all of this....”
The next day:
Beep. “I know I said I wouldn’t call you again. But I just really feel the need to explain myself .... Please call me back, just so I’ll know you got the messages....”
Beep. “Hey, I got some free CDs from my record company. If you want some, stop by....”
The following day:
Beep. “Hey, I hope I’m not bugging you. I really am not a scary person. I am getting the message loud and clear that you don’t want to talk to me. OK, I can respect that.... But I really wish you would call me back, because I really just need some closure.”
Closure?
I may have to shoot the piano player.
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Samantha Bonar can be contacted at samatha.bonar@latimes.com.