The Art of Ghosting

I’m ashamed to admit I've been Art Vandelay way more times than I even know...

Michelle Hight, Guest Contributor

Not brag or anything, but I once had a blind date with Art Vandelay. I met him on Match.com.

He had just one picture on his profile. He was wearing a tux. With a bow tie. He was a bit more conservative looking than I normally like, but his profile was adorable. And, our phone conversations were wonderful, and clever, and hilarious, and deep. I was smitten.

Before I go any further, I just need to s'plain a lil' somethun'. I've never watched much telly, and I haven't seen many movies, unless you count documentaries. Rarely as a kid, not much in high school, and pretty much never since. Pop culture? Let's just say that I probably shouldn't be your first choice for a Trivial Pursuit partner. I just felt a need to mention that... Just in case you're wondering.

But, back to Art Vandelay.

I was working crazy long hours in Chastain Park, so it was a stretch to get away to meet him for a 7pm-on-a-weekday first date. But, for Art Vandelay, it was worth it.

At 6:30, I left the studio and headed toward Fado's Irish Pub, where Art promised me that he, and a delicious cup of Irish coffee, would be waiting.

Even back then, 6:30 Buckhead traffic was crazy. This was before the ubiquitous Google Maps, but dreamy Art Vandelay had me covered. Turn by turn, he charmingly guided me to the pub from his barstool at Fados.

Parking? That was another story. The closest I could get was two streets over, a block and a half away. I didn't want to be late. I told him I'd see him in 5 minutes and hung up the phone. I ran (yes, ran) to Fados Irish Pub, across two streets, down a little back parking lot... Wearing my ridiculous 4-inch-high stilettos and pencil-skirted business suit, on that sweltering-humid-degreed Georgia August day. I couldn't be late! Art Vandelay was waiting! I got to the door, a little bit frazzled. A whole lot sweaty. But, super excited.

I opened the door to a swoosh of cold air. It took a nano to see the eight or so people sitting at the barely-lighted wooden bar. The rest of the smattering of people were arranged at the tables.

I walked inside, thinking that elegant Art Vandelay would slide from his bar stool, wearing his sexy black tuxedo, and gracefully hold out his elbow to guide me to an awaiting seat.

He didn't.

I walked to the bar.

"Art?" I asked the first guy, who really didn't look like him, but, well, you know how those Match photos can be.

"Art?" I said a little louder, hoping that the real Art Vandelay would please stand up.

This time a few people looked towards me. They just as quickly looked away.

"Ahh... He must have gone to the bathroom to straighten his bow tie," I thought. He was probably as nervous as I. I scanned the bar for my cup of Irish coffee and his half-filled cocktail.

Hmmm... No drinks, I noticed. I called his phone. No answer. I laughed, thinking how funny it was that he was messing with me.

I walked around the pub.

"Art?" … "Art??" … “Art???"

Nobody stood up.

I asked the bartender where the guy who'd ordered a cup of Irish coffee and a bourbon on the rocks had gone.

"Here?", he asked.

"Yeah, just a few minutes ago", I answered.

"Wrong bar", he answered.

I called one more time. It rang once and went to voice mail.

I don’t know what you would have done, but I was starting to think that maybe Art Vandalay had seen me, didn't like what he saw, and exited the back door. But, but, but...wait. Wrong bar? Did I have the wrong bar? I was confused. I looked at my Blackberry and re-read the texts. Nope. Right bar.

Damn! He must have been waiting outside. He MUST have see me coming and split, which was NOT good news for a newly divorced, middle-aged suburban step mom, stiletto deep in self-doubt.

Bummed, I left, and went back to the office.

I never heard a peep from Art Vandelay again.

Tonight, many years later, as I was looking through my contacts, I saw Art Vandelay's name. Just for a giggle, I dialed the number, thinking it would be hilarious to strike up a conversation, just like old friends do.

My dream man from a dozen years past didn't answer, but a company's voice message did.

I wonder what ever happened to Art Vandelay. He'd grown to be sort of my hero, you know. He taught me something that night that changed my life. He showed me what it feels like to be on the other side of shitty. And it changed the way I dated. It changed the way I showed up for people. And it taught me a whole lot about integrity, and valuing other human beings.

“He taught me something that night that changed my life. He showed me what it feels like to be on the other side of shitty. And it changed the way I dated. It changed the way I showed up for people. And it taught me a whole lot about integrity, and valuing other human beings.”

For sure, I've been Art Vandelay way more times than I even know...

Had we met, Art Vandelay and I would have probably fallen in love, and moved to Bali, and lived happily ever after. I would have convinced him to donate his tux to Goodwill, and exchange his patent leathers for flip flops. We'd have spent the last 5000 days exploring the whole country, and floating on the blue. We would have been snuggling around the fires at night, watching the beautiful dancing theatrics, in Bali's tropical bliss.

But instead, over this last decade or so, I've gotten to experience a pretty magical normalish life of well, you know, normalish things, filled with some of most abnormalish beautifulist souls on planet earth.

And I have learned how I DON'T want to be... not just from Art Vandelay, but from the occasional, but similarly unconscious Art Vandelays who have circled my wagon since.

And, for that, and for them, I am eternally grateful.