My Date With David Blaine

And for my next act, I'm going to make myself disappear.

I was twenty years old when I quit my job as a TV news reporter in Anchorage, Alaska, and moved across the country to New York City. I was raised to believe that I could be anything, even though I’m a girl, and I wanted to be a New Yorker.

At the Sud de France Wine Festival in NYC.

Living in Alaska is not for the weak, but I knew that if I could survive growing up in Fairbanks, I could survive anywhere. So I bought a one-way ticket to New York City and finally found where I belonged, and that place was my first NYC apartment on Twenty-Third Street between Seventh and Eighth Avenues.

I didn’t have a job lined up when I got to the city; I just wanted to be a cast member on Saturday Night Live. I wasn’t delusional about it, though; I knew that it would probably take a few months for Lorne Michael’s to discover me. So I got a side hustle working the front desk at David Barton Gym, the gayest gym on planet Earth. It was humbling to go from reporting the news on TV every night to greeting people as they entered a gym. But I needed a job that was easy and flexible so I could focus the rest of my attention on becoming the world’s funniest and most beloved actress.

Working out at David Barton Gym.

I was mindlessly folding hand towels one day when I noticed a man with dark, droopy eyes staring at me from the back of the gym. From a distance, he was tall, dark, and moody, like the villain in a Stephen King novel. “My client wants to talk to you.” His personal trainer said as he walked past the front desk. I didn’t know anything about his client, only that he had enough money to pay for fifty personal training sessions in full.

The shadowy stranger approached the front desk and introduced himself as David. His voice was low, his eye contact deep, and he spoke slowly as if his words were just waking up from a coma.

“I’ve been noticing you. Can I take you out sometime?” he asked.

I wasn’t really attracted to men. But it would still take me a few years to realize how absolutely fucking gay I was. I cheerfully replied with a smile, “Sure! I’d love that. Let me grab a pen so you have my number.”

“No. Tell me your number. I’ll remember it.” I barely knew my own number. But I recited it out loud, secretly hoping he’d forget. “I’ll call you.” He promised as he disappeared down the stairs.

The door to the street hadn’t even closed yet by the time two women on the sales team raced over to me. “What’d David want? What’d he say?” Their excitement was at a level ten, and mine was at a negative four.

“He asked for my number,” I said while shrugging my shoulders. Guys asked me out all the time, and I found it extremely annoying. I’d either give them my real number and then put them in my phone as “Weird Hat Guy, Don’t Answer.” Or, I gave them a fake number because it was easier than saying, “I don’t want to.”

They found me on a park bench like this.

“Oh my God, David Blaine likes you!” one of the women squealed as she clapped her hands so rapidly I worried she might fly away.

Right, I knew his name. And I was familiar with some of his work, like when he dangled over London in a glass box without food for two months. Or when he tied thousands of balloons to his house and flew to South America only to realize a young boy named Russel was onboard as a stowaway. Or maybe that was the plot to Up. I’d never been asked out by a celebrity magician before. This sort of thing doesn’t happen in Alaska.

Calling Wall Street, telling them to sell.

The next afternoon I took Madison, my golden retriever, to the dog park near Chelsea Piers. My phone buzzed, “It’s David. I’ll pick you up in thirty minutes.” This was happening, even though I didn’t really have a say in the matter.

I took Madison home and met David in front of my building. I was surprised to find him sitting on a motorcycle. He handed me a helmet and said we needed to swing by his place to grab another one.

“Have you ever been on a motorcycle?” he asked while weaving through taxis and busses on Twenty-third Street. “I haven’t. Is it going to start levitating?” I jokingly asked.

“Good one.” He said in a dry, monotone voice. “Did you come up with that yourself?” As a matter of fact, I did. Not bad for a girl from Alaska.

Breaking News: Girl from Alaska comes up with her own material.

We parked in front of David’s building. I took the helmet off and was already annoyed I’d have to put it back on later. My face and hair were too good to hide underneath a thick hat like that; it wasn’t fair to me or the general public. A doorman greeted us and gave David a fist bump as he let us in. I’m sure that doorman knew a lot of secrets. God, I’d have so much dirt on people if that was my job. They’d have to tip me real well at Christmas, essentially buying my silence.

David lived on the penthouse floor of a building on Fifth Avenue near Washington Square Park. The elevator spat us out directly into his apartment, something I’d only heard about in my dreams. I noticed the ceiling first. It was plastered with a painting of Hoodini being buried alive. I flipped through a big black book that was left open on the dining room table. It was filled with press clippings about David’s death-defying stunts. He encouraged me to keep looking. A few pages in, I saw a photo of David with Madonna. “I dated Madonna. You’re much hotter than Madonna.” He said, as though it was a competition. The fact is that nobody is, was, or ever will be hotter than Madonna. Not me. Not you. Not anyone on this entire fucking planet.

“Do you have an iPod?” David asked.

“Not yet. But I’m going to wait for my parents to get nice and drunk, and then I’m gonna ask them to buy me one.” I said. I’d been wanting an iPod for a long time, but they were expensive, and I was a broke ​​twenty-one-year-old.

I finally got that iPod.

“I’ll buy you one, but you have to download my music.” My inner gold digger perked up as I considered this. Unfortunately, I’d already learned my lesson that if I let a man buy me something, I’d be expected to owe him something in return. If only I didn’t have morals, I’d be running the world right now. I thanked him and declined the offer.

“What are you doing next week?” He asked.

“I’m not sure yet,” I replied while scanning my brain for excuses to avoid a second date. “I think I have a few auditions and an improv class.”

“It’s my birthday next week, and I’m going to Germany. You should come. I’ll get your ticket.” I love traveling, and I’m of German descent, and a free trip to my people’s homeland would be great, but again, the thought of being stuck in another country with a man I barely knew didn’t sound appealing. So I thanked him for the offer and, again, declined.

Don’t make me wear a helmet. Free the face.

“Have you seen Hair the Musical?” He asked, “It’s one of my favorite movies. I always have it playing in my bedroom. You have to watch it. Follow me.”

David led me down a hallway and into his bedroom. He patted his bed, and I plopped down on the mattress like an obedient little shih-tzu. I thought we were just stopping by to grab another helmet, but suddenly we were on his bed watching a musical about hair. He laid down and told me to make myself comfortable, which would’ve been impossible.

I started to think David was using the helmet as an excuse to drop by his apartment so he could have sex with me. No, I was sure of it. I asked if I could show him a card trick because if there’s anything that would kill the mood, it would be that. David pulled out a deck of cards from his nightstand. I was still shuffling when he told me he already knew what trick I was going to do. And he was correct. I handed the deck over, and David did a few tricks for me. I wondered how many women had similar experiences.

After we finished watching Hair, David brought me into his living room and turned on the TV. It was nice to be in an apartment with more than one room. He laid down on his brown leather couch, again motioning me to join him.

Felt cute.

“My friends call me the Cat because I can go to sleep anywhere,” he said. I wasn’t really listening. I was too distracted trying to think of a believable excuse to leave. I fought the urge to stand up and announce, “And for my next act, I’m going to disappear!” Then step into the elevator and press the button to the lobby.

David played an interview he did with Larry King about his latest stunt. Larry asked how he went to the bathroom while living in the glass box and if he wore a diaper the whole time. David fast-forwarded that part of the interview before I heard his answer. We watched a few more clips on TV, and David pulled me in next to him. Then he picked up my hand and placed it on his pants so I could feel his erect penis. I wasn’t sure if his boner was from the idea of having sex with me or from watching himself on TV.

I took my hand back. “I have to go look at an apartment because I’m moving soon.” I lied.

“Let me drive you.” He insisted.

“I can’t.” I declined, “I’m meeting up with my friend Anthony in a few minutes. I forgot we were looking at the apartment together.” I didn’t even have a friend named Anthony. I just wanted to get out of there.

He bought my lie, and I left. But I was convinced he set a Google Alert for my mouth because every time I said his name, he would call me. He was moving to Tribeca soon and asked if he could pay me to oversee the move and to make sure the movers didn’t steal or break anything. I declined, even though I would’ve loved the money.

Eventually, I stopped answering, and he stopped calling.

A decade later, I moved to Los Angeles. But I would still go back to New York for work a few times a year. On one of those trips, I was waiting for the light to change at Twenty-first and Fifth when I heard the revving of a motorcycle get louder and closer. David pulled up next to me.

“Lauren,” he said, “Is your number still 917-***-****?”

“David, hi. Yes.” I wasn’t surprised to see him; New York’s not that big. He asked if he could see my phone, and I handed it over. He put in his new number.

“I’ll follow you on Twitter.” He said and then drove off into the sunset.