Curse You, Patrick Moberg

I was intrigued by the tale of Patrick Moberg. He was the wonderboy who created a website a few months back to find the "girl of his dreams" who he'd spotted on the New York subway. And, by gum, he found her! The Internet was all a-buzz—as it is wont to do—and the happy couple even appeared on Good Morning America. Moberg was a flavor of the minute, and the story was forgotten as quickly as it appeared.

But not forgotten by everyone. Young master Moberg may not have considered a sinister consequence of his seemingly innocent romantic quest: Providing entirely too much hope to we legions of pathetic guys who stare at women on public transportation. The following true story takes place a mere two days after I watched the infamous GMA appearance in a Houston hotel room.


With Moberg on my mind, I am on the PATH train platform at Newark Penn Station on Sunday night, returning from a trip. I see a pretty girl. A plain pretty girl. My "type." I think, I'll get on the same train car as her.

And I do. She sits in the corner. Should I sit near her? No, I'll stand, with my suitcase, a safe distance away.

She starts reading a magazine. The image—the girl, the hair, the posture, the magazine—is extremely appealing to me. I decide to clandestinely document it on my cellphone camera.

I figure I should take a close-up too. For good measure.

Hmmm. I calculate the odds. There's about a 10% chance she'll transfer at Journal Square to a Hoboken train. If she does, maybe I'll talk to her. If it's the New Yorker, definitely. But doesn't quite look like the New Yorker. Could be a fashion magazine.

Journal Square. She gets off the train. I get off the train. There's a waiting-at-the-end-of-the-line Hoboken-bound train across the platform. But there's not an obvious car straight across for both of us to enter. I take a chance and choose first. She doesn't follow me. I'm sad.

"Joaquin," calls one of the friendly employees from the Spa Diner, where I am a regular. I don't know his name. I explain that there was a "mujer bonita" on the "otra tren." But where she is now, I don't know. I am a little "triste."

I get off the train in Hoboken, go up the first flight of stairs, approach the exit, and—wait, I recognize that jacket, that bag, those black tights, that longish-dirty-blonde hair that is the trademark of 1/3 of the women I am attracted to. She exits first. She takes the steps to ground level TWO STEPS AT A TIME. Wild.

Is she walking home? No, she's headed to the taxi line. I planned to walk but, now I must also take a taxi. I bid "buenos noches" to my diner friend, who must begin his shift.

Now I am standing behind her in the taxi line.

I am nervous.

First cab pulls up. "Fourth and Madison," she says. This cabbie refuses: Most cabs take three passengers, but the first determines which section of town they will drive to.

So if a cab accepts her and still has room for me, WE WILL RIDE TOGETHER. Fourth and Madison being one block south, two blocks west of me. And since I won't be asking for the same exact intersection, it won't TOTALLY seem like I'm stalking her. It's what they would call a "happy coincidence."

That’s how it goes down. I am SHARING A BACK SEAT WITH HER.

She buckles up. Backseat buckling is for wusses but I do it. I buckle up. But will I buckle down, or buckle under?

As we drive into the Hoboken night, I think, "Man, it's fucking creepy that I have two photos of this girl on my phone."

And then I think, I should say something.

There's a third passenger, in the front seat. A woman. I am not attracted to her.

I think, how can I talk to one without talking to everyone? What would Moberg do?

Maybe we'll drop off Front-Seaty first.

No.

We're headed to my street first.

Fuck.

I haven't said anything.

Maybe I'll say something as I get out.

But I don't.

Fuck.

Not even "goodnight."

I am angry at myself.

I am triste.

Later I post one of those pathetic "missed connection" messages on craigslist.
But there is no reply.
No reply at all, as Genesis once sang.
This is the time of no reply, said Nick Drake.

And the wind cries Moberg.