Tuck Glass

“Dating after thirty is easy. It’s like riding a bike. But the bike is on fire. And the ground is on fire. Everything is on fire. Because you are in hell.”

- Unknown

I came to the glorious island of Manhattan with a lot of uncertainties. But there were two things I knew: I was going to meet the love of my life. And that man was probably the real-life rich bad boy from my favorite Manhattan-based TV show. In Tuck Glass, I at least found one of those things.

I’d made a new friend recently, M, and we thought it would be fun to have a laundry party - where essentially I brought my laundry to her insanely nice apartment and did it while we drank wine, ate cheese, and watched trash television. It was a glorious evening, and after everything was neatly folded, we thought it would be a solid idea to top off our night at a bar near her house. I’d never been sold on Brooklyn, but she was determined to change my mind. And so I found myself at a tiny bar off Atlantic Avenue.

We had already indulged in several wines (I am not apologizing for my wine drinking – you try leaving your comfortable career, going back to school, and watching your savings disappear without drinking, haha). We were more outgoing and social than normal. We were in the middle of a colorful discussion about breakups when a shorter gentleman with a man bun appeared.

“You guys come here often?” he asked me.

I made a face. “Is that your line?”

“It was,” he confirmed, leaning closer. “How old are you?”

I maintained my visual disdain. “Who are you, and why are you asking such terrible questions?”

“Because,” he motioned to my friend, “I think she is older than you. And I love older women.”

I shook my head. My friend was indeed older, but she looked younger. He seemed to be looking for an excuse to jump ship and I wanted to give him one. He buzzed over to my friend and left me alone.

After a few minutes, I noticed a quiet, taller man standing near where Ponytail had been. He was nursing his cocktail and watching, a half smirk on his face, as his friend struck out with my friend. He wasn’t handsome per se, but there was something intriguing about the way he carried himself - tall, slow-moving, and intentional. He had to be one of those elusive born and bred New Yorkers.

I pointed at Ponytail. “Is he always this charming?”

He sidled closer along the bar to answer. “He’s always a little out there if that’s what you’re asking.”

It was what I was asking, and I nodded in appreciation. “How do you two know each other?”

“We work within similar circles,” he explained. “What brings you ladies here tonight?”

“Laundry and wine,” I answered.

He laughed - everyone in New York gets the damn laundry struggle. Oh, how I miss the words “en suite” as a normal part of everyday life.

“Did you grow up in New York?” I continued, curious if my assumptions were right.

He took a sip of his cocktail. “I did. I live here in Brooklyn now but grew up on the Upper East Side.”

The UES is one of the places in New York that hasn’t changed much - it has always been a place where the old, rich families live. It’s the setting for multiple movies and TV shows portraying that stereotypical posh view of Manhattan life.

I nodded, trying to hide my intrigue. “It seems strange to me, growing up anywhere other than the mountains like I did. What did you do for fun as kids?”

He grinned, teeth startling white. “We ran subway stations.”

“What is that?”

“We’d wait for a train to come along,” he explained. “And then we’d hop on the tracks when it left and run as fast as we could to the next station.”

I was shocked. “That’s not a thing!”

He shrugged. “And yet we did it!”

“What happens if you don’t make it before the next train comes?” I wasn’t sure I believed him.

“We luckily never found out,” he answered, laughing. “But yeah, it was an interesting upbringing.”

“I always think of my favorite TV show when I think of UES,” I continued, giving him the name of the show.

“So funny story,” he said at the name of the show. “My sister’s best friend was a main writer for the show when it was on.”

“No!” I exclaimed, already enjoying the direction of this discussion.

“And one of the main characters, Tuck, is based on me,” he continued.

I almost fell out of my chair - Tuck was the man I dreamt of meeting in New York. “You’re joking,” I said.

He shook his head and showed me photos on his phone, proving his claim. I was sitting beside the literal Tuck Glass.

A few days later, M texted me: They want to go on a double date. I thought they were fun and think it would make for a good story. We should go.

I considered - Tuck was nice enough but I genuinely wasn’t a fan of Ponytail. She seemed genuinely invested in the potential adventure, though, and so I acquiesced.

Fine. I’m free for dinner on Friday.

And so we found ourselves at a small tapas restaurant in BK (that’s New York people lingo for Brooklyn) seated beside the two guys.

Ponytail immediately ordered an aperol spritz and leaned back, untying his hair and shaking it so it fell loosely on his shoulders, resting his hands on his belly. The whole picture had me close to hysterics. To avoid bursting out into laughter, I turned to Tuck, who was quietly brooding over his old-fashioned. He was disengaged and untalkative, and no matter how hard I tried to talk, he kept drinking and answering with short questions. Put off, I turned to M and Ponytail, feigning interest as he bragged about his many female conquests.

After an hour, silent Tuck had finished his seventh drink, and I tried to think back to the show - did TV Tuck drink so much? Was he always antisocial and brooding? I didn’t think so, but it had been a while since I’d watched.

Hoping to be entertained, I turned to find Ponytail was still regaling M with details about how women constantly fell in love with him. The double date was turning into a raging dumpster fire.

Hoping a change of setting might stop things from crashing further, I pushed everyone to head to the bar next door.

As soon as we sat down, it was apparent I was wrong. Ponytail seemed encouraged by M’s tipsy kind nodding at his tales, and Tuck was suddenly much more social. In fact, I couldn’t help but notice that the man who seemed too preoccupied with his fancy drink to talk was suddenly a little too close for comfort, his hand almost on top of my leg.

He leaned over and spoke quietly. “You’re so pretty, I don’t even know how to talk to you.”

“Thanks,” I said, trying not to shy away. “You seemed to have no problem chatting last time we met, though.”

“Well, we had drank a bit,” he continued, maintaining the smooth purr next to my ear. “Your hair is gorgeous.”

I leaned back and frowned. “Thanks,” I said from a safer distance. This was maybe something TV Tuck would’ve done, but it felt so...weird.

Drunk Tuck didn’t take a hint. He leaned close again. “I’d love to see how amazing your hair looks against your naked body.”

It gave me the creeps to a level I rarely am creeped out to. I stood up perhaps too fast, bumping into the table and spilling our drinks. No amount of fancy cocktails could convince me to stay.

“Wow, M!” I exclaimed, initiating the get-out-of-dodge sequence. “You have that interview tomorrow, right?”

She looked at me, and I gave her a look to let her know our date was over. I helped her stand beside me. “It’s been a pleasure, gentlemen,” I said, noticing briefly the look of shock on Tuck’s face. “Thank you for a lovely evening.”

On the way home, I explained what happened, and we agreed it was an absolute disaster. We both hit delete on their contacts.

I walked away that night learning a valuable lesson - oftentimes, the things we see on television seem too good to be true because they are, in fact, fictional. And sometimes we need to be careful what we ask for, because it might find us in a dark Brooklyn bar, mentioning they’d like to see us with no clothes on.