the naked physicist

So there I was, the new kid in Baltimore, back after a stint overseas and in San Fran. My best friend Rita had taken up with a man that she eventually married, so, with my partner in crime occupied, I ended up going out a lot by myself. It wasn’t particularly fun.

One day at work I was walking out of the Johns Hopkins Applied Physics Lab (APL) with some of my colleagues. As the name implies, it’s a place filled with ill dressed, out of shape, wonder bread boys, most of whom have never realized you can buy clothes made from natural fibers. Imagine my surprise when this gorgeous creature walked through the door in the opposite direction.

“Hey Morgan!” my colleagues said.
“Hhhrgh.” said Morgan.

I managed to make it to the car before I asked about him.

“So, is he single?” I queried.

A round of snickers and giggles ensued. Working with software developers is torture. Finally one of them said “Oh, I’m pretty sure he’s single.” Another round of the giggle fits. It took all my willpower not to punch every one of them in the balls.

I got Morgan’s email address at the lab and sent him an email from my yahoo account. I wrote “Hi, we have some colleagues in common (blah blah about them) and I’m working with APL on (blah blah). My favorite weapon is the lawn dart.”

He replied a couple of minutes later acknowledging my lawn dart joke, and then inquiring about my academic pedigree. The end of his email said “Just so you know, I do not date women without PhDs.”

It turns out Morgan had two PhDs, one in physics and one in engineering. I could feel the beginnings of a crush: gorgeous, in shape, and over educated. Right up my alley. I tried tempting him into a cup of tea by sending a favorite logic puzzle from Smullyan’s Riddle of Scheherazade. He liked but said no to tea. My wit was no match for his stubbornness.

Finally I sent him a story I had written about ice climbing, which I had submitted to a local paper, so it had my real name on it, as opposed to my nick name. Within seconds I got a response back that said “Are you related to Dr. X?” When I confirmed he said “I must meet you and experience your DNA in person.”

It turns out Morgan had used some research my dad had done on, I am not making this up, something about “Dynamic Elastic Moduli of Titanium Aluminides”, super alloys, and vacuum processing for something or other. Morgan looked up my home number and had left 5 messages for me while I was at work. He wanted to go out on a date. Things seemed to be falling into place.

We agreed to go to a place called 8x10, and for Morgan to walk over to pick me up. He lived, oddly enough, only 5 blocks from me. The club we were going to was ½ mile from my apartment.

I told the boys at work I had a date with Morgan. More snickers and giggles. Idiots, I thought to myself, ignoring them as best I could. Morgan had proven to be a first rate e-mailer, and a thoughtful guy who sent little notes and poems throughout the day. All the women at work were sighing over his picture, which I had found on the Hopkin’s web site, where he worked part time as a professor.

The morning of our date I logged on Yahoo. I emailed him asking what he was up to for the day. He sent an email back saying he was sending naked pictures of himself to all his friends. This was typical of our exchanges (much more clever if you read the originals). So I sent back saying I must not be a friend because I hadn’t gotten a picture yet. That afternoon I checked my email again. All the women from work were standing behind me to see what sweet things Morgan had written.

I had received an e-card so I clicked on the link. There, to my embarrassment, was a naked picture of Morgan, with a little smirk on his face. And when I say naked I mean naked as the day he sprung out of his mom’s vagina and said “Oh goody! Only 17 more years until I can go to college!” Oy vey. I had a sudden sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, but most of the women, after getting over the initial shock, found the picture provided even more incentive for me to date him.

That night I was on standby to buzz Morgan into the apartment building when my land line rang. It was Morgan. “Dude, you are supposed to be here right now picking me up” I said. I hate it when people are late.

“Well, there’s…a little problem,” he said.

The problem turned out to be an illness issue that he had not been disclosed. Morgan suffered from agoraphobia. He had a hard time leaving his apartment most days, unless he was going some place familiar, which my apartment building decidedly was not.

“So, I’m just going to chill for 15 minutes, and then I’ll be over,” he promised. 15 minutes later the phone rang. Same problem. Same solution. This went on for two hours until I finally lost it. “Get your ass over here or fuck off!” I yelled into the phone. Seven minutes later my buzzer went off.

I buzzed Morgan up to my place. I should mention that I was living in a department store building that was being made into loft apartments. I was the first, and at that point the only, tenant in the building. The hallways were still uncarpeted and detritus from construction abounded throughout. My apartment was more or less finished and was in its usual manically clean state.

Morgan pushed open my door, which I had left propped, and rushed over to the kitchen sink. “I’m just going to wash my hands,” he said. No problem, the building is dirty, I thought. But then he kept washing his hands. For five minutes. And then he dried them off and started washing them again.

The reason for my colleagues amusement over my date was suddenly becoming crystal clear.

It turns out Morgan was very intelligent, and as a result, mentally ill. He suffered from agoraphobia, OCD, haphephobia (fear of being touched), misophobia (fear of dirt and germs), and a whole host of other things. He had tried to take drugs but felt they made him dopey and slow witted so he coped as best as he could. Which, on this evening, was probably not very well, as he was not able to stop washing his hands.

I poured myself a glass of cognac and contemplated jumping out the window. I was on the 10th floor.

“Gross, don’t get near me with that!” said Morgan. He had wrapped my hand towels around his hands and headed into the living room. “I hate the smell of alcohol. It makes me want to vomit. I am going to have to lie on your floor for a minute because my back is bothering me.” I transferred more cognac to my glass, thought for a second, transferred that into a larger glass, which I topped off, and went into the living room.

He had not taken off his leather jacket (it was winter time) and the sleeves were pulled over his hands. I noticed, for the first time, that he was wearing a pair of really thick wool socks and Birkenstocks. Very few men can get away with that look. Morgan, on a good day, was one of them. But this was not, as mentioned above, a good day. Mental illness, academic snobbery, allergy to alcohol - all that could be forgiven. But not the Birkenstocks.

“Please leave.” I said, sinking down onto my sofa.
“I can’t leave now. I am just getting used to this place. I’m going to have to work myself up to go back out into that filthy hallway.”
“So how long will it take until you can leave?” I asked. He didn’t answer.

He started telling me his life story, including a play he wrote about a blow up doll, how his old girlfriend was murdered in Baltimore, about working at Hopkins, various patents he had applied for or currently held, and on and on. Finally, around 4 in the morning, I ran out of patience, energy, and, more importantly, cognac. I had to find a way to get him to leave.

A plan came to mind, a plan so preposterous I knew it would work. I started scratching my nails against the side of my sofa. Morgan stopped his monologue, delivered to the ceiling, and whipped his head around pretty quickly for a guy that had back problems.

“Did you hear that?” he asked in a frighten tone.
“Oh, that scratching sound?” I responded casually.
“What is it?” Morgan asked in a tone that said he didn’t really want to know.
“Well, a lot of the apartments don’t have external windows (this was true). The workmen leave their lunch stuff lying around (this was also true – most unfinished apartments looked like homes for wayward McDonald wrappers) and the rats come in at night and eat the food. There’s one rat that seems to be trying to get into my…”

Before I could finish Morgan moved off my floor with almost supernatural grace. His birks didn’t even come off. He rushed to my door and swung a be-sleeved hand in the direction of the knob. He looked like he was about to have a massive breakdown and couldn’t produce an intelligible sound.

I opened the door for him and he ran all the way from my apartment to the elevators. Two separate pairs of gloves fell out of his pockets but he didn’t stop. When he got to the elevator it was still waiting for him (they were set to end up on certain floors and not leave that floor until someone pressed a button because of the construction). The doors closed. I knew I would never see him again.

I went to bed around 430, relieved that my ordeal was over and vowing to not date again. Around 8 am the phone rang. It was Morgan, telling me what a great time he had had and asking if I was free for lunch that day as he wanted me to meet his friends. He warned me to not mention the ice climbing to any of his friends as he feared that would make me look too manly. He continued chattering away until I interrupted him.

“Fuck off.” I said, and hung up the phone.

As an odd afterward to this story, I was at an engineering dinner with my dad about two years later and I was talking to some physicists about Morgan. They seemed shocked that I was shocked that he sent me a naked picture. Apparently most physicists are crazy and like to give women naked pictures of themselves.

So ladies, if you are still looking for Mr. Right, consider yourselves warned…