Chapter 45: Anatomy of a Disappearance: Dude, Where Are You?
Meet him: a new-old breed of magicians in Shekel, the people who make David Copperfield look like an amateur. Welcome to my new episode, and today's focus:
Dude, where are you?
It starts with a storm. Matching. Match. The app's pyrotechnics are working overtime, digital fireworks on the screen, and him? He's here, and he's into it. He's not just saying "hi," he's investing. He read my bio (or at least glanced at the third picture where I look halfway decent), and he's flooding.
"What's up, Yael? Wow, you seem like a witty writer" (true), "What are you doing this weekend?" (you, probably not), "We owe you a beer!" (we owe you).
We exchange three sentences, half an inside joke, he gets my WhatsApp as if it were a link to the Corona vaccine in 2020, and then...
Smoke. Silence. Crickets.
We’re talking about a fascinating breed of characters here, who can be broken down into a few sub-species in the Encyclopedia of the Vanished:
The Bold Digital Warrior: The one who texted you half the night with texts on the level of a razor-sharp poem, flirting like he’s at least Casanova 5G edition. But the moment you suggested, "So, coffee tomorrow?", he had an existential panic attack and dissolved into thin air. Apparently, his fascinating persona doesn’t survive outside the Wi-Fi range of his childhood bedroom.
The Skull Collector: The guy whose entire purpose in life is to collect girls' numbers on WhatsApp, like a fourth-grader trading panini stickers. "Yes! I got Yael's number!" Good for you, sweetie, my walking sticker album. Now what are you going to do with me? Kiss the screen?
The Well-Timed Archaeologist: The type who vanishes without a word, and then suddenly pops up after a month and a half, on a Friday night at 11:30 PM, with a genius text like: "Hey, what's up?". Sorry, honey, I didn't know I was a "set-it-and-forget-it" savings account, or maybe it just took you six weeks to recover from the sheer effort of the previous "Hey."
They disappear faster than a pack of wet wipes left open in the car in August. One second they are full of moisture and interest, the next second existential dryness in the desert of the dating apps.
The Hard Questions (or: Have you been abducted by aliens?)
Guys, let's analyze the incident. We're not talking about someone I dated for two months and decided he wasn't the one (which is crap in itself, but at least it takes courage). We're talking about a creature who barely knows my daughter's name, what I think of cilantro, or whether I prefer cats or dogs. He doesn't know me! He hasn't had time to discover my true flaws! I have at least 40 other shocking character traits that he hasn't even scratched the surface of!
So what happened there, soul?
Did you fall into a pit of light rail infrastructure? Likely.
Did you suddenly go into vegetative state the second you hit "send" on that last WhatsApp? Medically, it's fascinating.
Did your mom grab your phone and say, "Not at our school"?
The best part about fading men? They disappear at the exact point when they could still market themselves as sensitive and intelligent men. They retire at their peak, before I could discover that they live in a junkyard apartment and wash a floor once a quarter.
A Brief Guide to the Ghosts of the 21st Century
The cynic in me (I mean, all of me) understands this. Apps have turned us into consumers in a human mall. You saw a shirt, you put it in your cart, you walked by another store, you forgot about the cart.
But come on, your attention span is like a goldfish on ecstasy? You got the number, you made all the mess, for what? To add me to your WhatsApp archive next to the "Concentrated Orders from Super Pharm" group?
So to all the faders, the disappearers, and the magicians of illusion:
If you're just looking for the thrills of the initial match, download a game of "Candy Crush." At least there, when something disappears, it has a satisfying explosion sound effect.
And me? I'm moving on.
Next up, please. Just try to stay solid at least until the first date, okay?
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