I Think I Caught A Catfish
- Jul 29, 2015
- 14 min read
Sometimes you swipe across a profile and know the guy is fake. But every now and then, one stumps you. Enter Matteo.
Sometimes you swipe across a profile and think, “Oh, this guy is definitely full of shit.” Most of the time, these guys are pretty easy to spot- if he’s vague about the details of his life, if he has only editorial photos (come on, even models take selfies); and of course, the ever trustworthy, if it’s too good to be true, it probably is. But every now and then, one stumps you. Enter Matteo.
He was a very handsome, and very European, businessman, although he did not like to talk about work… at all. It was kind of nice that he didn’t want to be identified only by his profession- I knew his job had him traveling a lot, but that’s it. We talked about our passions, our dreams, and our families, but he never actually mentioned or talked about what he did. He always brushed it off as, “I don’t want to talk about work” or “What I do is just work, what I love is who I am.” Red Flag #1: Evading the details.
He posted a picture of himself in a beautiful car, one of him on a horse playing polo, and another shaking someone’s hand in front of a sign for a very prestigious university. Red Flag #2: You probably pulled these off the internet. For your protection I’ve included some pictures that potential catfish COULD choose from the internet, ya know, for research purposes.
He spoke beautifully about his parents and his sisters and how he missed being home in Italy with them. He was kind, attentive, and supportive. I distinctly remember complaining about my boss one day and him responding by asking questions and then helping me come to a solution. That’s my kind of guy. Get your whining out, then tell me what you’re going to do about it. He was respectful, smart, sweet, and did I mention handsome? Red Flag #3: Too good to be true.
So, I enacted what I like to call my Catfish Protection Plan. “Send me a pic of what you’re doing right now.” “I can’t take pictures right now. I still have my old phone from home.” “In Italy?” Are Italian camera phones different than American ones? “Yes. I can send you pictures of that.” And he did. Gorgeous pictures of what he claimed to be his family’s house in a lovely Italian town. But none of him. I caught you, Catfish! Normally, I would have thrown him back into the sea, but then he tugged on the line just a bit harder.
“I’m going to be traveling out of the country for work this week. You can e-mail me if you want to keep talking.” He attached his e-mail address. It included his first and last name @ a company. Ah ha! A clue! I put that e-mail address to good use. No, I didn’t e-mail him, what are you crazy? I Google stalked him.
Oh my.
Up popped website after website, page after page, links upon links all related to the name I had typed into the search bar. The image search showed the same face as his online profile and, sure enough, so did the little information I knew about him. Apparently, he had been a top executive for one of the leading sports car companies in the world- that explains the fancy car picture- and his LinkedIn profile displayed various other high positions at huge companies. Guys, he had his own Wikipedia page. I snapped my laptop closed. Huh. Somebody did their research on this Matteo guy and is using his identity on a mobile dating site. Sneaky. I heard my phone go off. It was him, whoever “him” actually was.
“My friend took a photo of what I’m doing right now so I could show you,” and attached was a picture of him presenting in front of a group of people. He gets points for at least remembering. Definitely the same face, but how do I know this wasn’t pulled off the internet as well? How do I know that this guy isn’t following Real Matteo on some social site and just pulling his information and pictures straight off the web? The answer is, I didn’t. But the quizzical (and stupid) side of me wanted to know more. I needed more clues. Was this guy for real or was he an identity thief? I had to know. Sad, who has time to sit around and research some random guy on Google just so that they can go on a few dates? Ha. What a loser. Wait…
I guess this is how they get you. They portray themselves as “the perfect guy” so that you overlook their vague profile and stolen pictures. But why would someone choose such a public and easily searchable figure?
He asked if he could make me dinner. Absolutely not. I told him I have a strict rule about meeting in public, especially on the first date (and ESPECIALLY if I think he’s a conning me). Keeping it lighthearted, I text,
“How do I know you’re not 60 and balding?” “How do I know you’re not?” Touché. I sent him a picture of my hair in all its voluminous glory, coupled it with a picture of a very old and very wrinkly man and wrote, “But which one is me??” He responded with, “Guess who got a new phone” and a selfie.
GASP. Wait. Selfie? Could he be real? Or did Fake Matteo steal this from one of Real Matteo’s posts? Oh, this was juicy. I needed to meet him. I needed to know.
A first date outfit choice is never a one shot deal. I sent pictures to my best girlfriends for their opinions. We settled on a moderately flowy v-neck tank, a casual blazer, skinnies, and of course, my favorite date night Lucky Brand boots. Now, these boots weren’t just made for walking. These boots were made for awesome. Camel colored leather, knee high, slight cowboy touch, but with a bit of a heel. And comfortable. They pull an outfit together nicely, but more importantly, I’d be able to make a quick get away from a creepy catfish, which would in all likeliness be the fate of my evening. Yes, these are the actual boots. You’re welcome.
I get to the subway and enact part two of the Catfish Protection Plan. I text my girls the exact location where we plan to meet, his phone number, his “name”, and a link to his dating profile. A girl can never be too safe these days. The ladies were on standby.
I text “Matteo” to let him know I was getting on the subway and headed into Manhattan. He responds, “I’ll be circling the sky waiting for you.” And the train pulls away from the station. Wait. Was he in a helicopter? I did see a picture of him in flight gear. I try to text back but I’m now underground and out of range. What did he mean? I’d have to wait to find out. Seriously, if I’m taking the subway and this guy is in a helicopter, I’m going to be PISSED.
It’s two blocks from where the subway drops me off to our meeting location. I look to the sky. No helicopters. Liar. To my knowledge, there are no helipads on top of any New York City high rises, but then again, what the hell did I know about helipads and high rises.
“I’m a block away.” “Ok, I’ll be waiting outside.”
One block to discover my fate. One block and I would come face to face with Fake Matteo and boy, did I have questions. One block and I could be dating an Italian millionaire. One block and I’m basically sprinting to get there.
I cross the street, step up onto the curb and squint to see as far down the block as I can. I don’t see him. I also don’t know what I’m actually looking for. I knew what Matteo should have looked like, but that’s not who I’d be meeting tonight.
A man is sitting on a stoop outside the entrance to a tall and elegant building. He stands and waves at me. Damn it! He’s standing in the shadow of the awning and I can’t see his face! He looks tall and he’s a man. That’s all I know. He looks like he might be cute either way. A little closer. He’s wearing an open blazer. And jeans. And shoes. I can see shoes. I always see shoes. He steps down off the stoop into the street light. Ah ha! Time to know your true identity Fake Matteo. The light hits his face and he smiles a familiar smile.
Holy shit. He’s real.
“Hello!” he beamed excitedly. He grabbed me around the shoulders, kissed me several times on each cheek, held me at arms distance, looked me up and down and proclaimed, “I like your boots.”
He had the deepest voice and a thick accent. You know when you type something into Google Translate and it sounds more like your listening to a European futbol announcer? That’s what he sounded like. He. Matteo. ACTUAL Matteo was standing in front of me, smiling at me.
“Are you hungry, Michele?” “Always.”
I followed him a few blocks through the street of downtown Manhattan. I say follow because this man was on a mission. Good thing I wore the awesome boots because I definitely needed to keep up with this guy. He was used to a fast pace, for sure. Attentively though, he paused and held my elbow each time we crossed the street. Quick but cautious.
We landed at a tiny pizza place and Matteo turned to me and smiled, “The pasta here,” he actually kissed his fingers, “I come here all the time.” Which was apparently true because he greeted the entire staff by first name and they were genuinely happy to see him- and equally surprised to see a women beside him. I was introduced, in Italian, to everyone. The waiters, the owner, the guy behind the bar, the busboy, some of the customers. By the way, I don’t speak a lick of Italian. I know some choice words that are better saved for mumbling under your breath and would earn me a smack in the back of the head had I dared to utter them at the dinner table.
“You don’t know any Italian?” “Not really. I’ve always wanted to learn.” “Why haven’t you?” “I don’t know. I haven’t really had the time.” This confused him. “If you want to learn it, then you should do it.” I nodded my head. “You are absolutely right.” And damn it, he was. You know, I downloaded a language app as soon as I got home.
He asked if there was anything I didn’t eat or didn’t like, and then asked if it was ok if he ordered for us. I was happy to not have to make that decision, I’m the kind of person who needs to read the entire menu. He ordered in Italian and laughed with the waiter, who was actually a very good friend of Matteo’s. They moved here together from Italy- Matteo for business and his friend to be an actor. He politely translated everything for me.
“So.” Matteo took one of my hands. “I want to know about you. Tell me about your family. Show me pictures.” With my free hand, I grabbed my phone and, as he played with my fingers, we laughed about my brazen mother, my goofy father, and my creatively talented sisters. He looked up at me.
“Your father has three daughters?” “Yup. I’m the youngest.” “He’s a lucky man.” “I don’t know. I’m sure he would have liked a son.” “No. Daughters are beautiful. Women are so much nicer to be around. I would like to have three daughters.” “Oh? What happens if you have a son?” “I would love him and then try to have another daughter!” He laughed and I laughed. “Your poor wife!” “No,” he laughed again, “It’s going to be three daughters. I know it.” I don’t know if he was right about that, but he was definitely right about the pasta. I like to think of this meal as forks on rotation. He ordered a bit of different things, so he would take a bite, put more on his fork and pass it over to me to try. And I did the same. We might as well have just had the dishes on a turntable. I noticed how quickly he was eating.
“Matteo. Slow down. Nobody’s going to take it away from you.” I did not pass him the next fork but smiled instead. “Take a breath.” He looked at me. “You’re right. Always go, go, go with me.” He put his fork down and scooted his chair over to my side of the table. “Work is busy and stressful.” He brought up work! I already knew the answer but I asked, “What is it that you do?” “No, I don’t want to talk about work. I want to talk about you.” So close. Slowly, we finished our pasta(s) and chatted long after about our families. There was an obvious longing he felt for family and home and every so often he mentioned how he’d like to do something with or teach something to his three daughters. I got the distinct impression that he must live a relatively lonely life. Maybe that’s why he turned to online dating.
“Let’s take a walk.” He said, stood and offered me his hand to escort me out of my seat. He was innately the perfect gentleman. We said goodbye to everyone on the way out, and I was hugged and kissed by each person I met on the way in. Nobody’s a stranger once you’ve eaten with Italians. This was much like leaving any function with my family- holidays, reunions, funerals.
At a much slower pace, Matteo took me on a guided tour of lower Manhattan. We strolled, arm in arm, through the peaceful streets. It’s an area of the city that, while busy, doesn’t have that same chaotic rumble of midtown. “So,” I started. “Tell me about the helicopter.” He looked at me quizzically, then understood and laughed. “No, I don’t own a helicopter. I can fly one, but I haven’t in a while.” “So then…” “From where I was, it looks like you’re circling the sky. It’s very high above the city.” “Oh.” Ok good, now I didn’t have to be pissed about sitting on the urine-scented express. “Helicopters are not my favorite vehicles though. I love cars. I used to work with cars.” “Ah ha! You talked about work!” I turned to him and smiled an “I got you” smile. He sighed and shook his head. “Alright. I will tell you. When you think of the best, most beautiful sports car, what kind do you think of?” See, it’s a good thing I did my research. I already knew the right answer. I pretended to think for a second before answering.
“Yes.” He said, “I was the Vice President of Global Sales.” I already knew this, but somehow I was still surprised when he said it. “Do you still get to drive them at all?” I asked and he smiled knowingly. “At any time, I still have access to 15 of them. Lamborghinis, Ferraris, Porsches.” “You know,” I started, “at any time I have access to exactly one Honda Civic.” We both laughed.
Let’s be real, half of my outfit was probably from Target. I am not easily impressed by material things. But. BUT. Fifteen incredible cars? I would’ve given up my Target rewards card just to drive one of them. I asked, “What do you do now?” Somehow, his voice dropped an octave- “Would you like to see?” Obviously the answer was yes and we made our way a bit further downtown to his office building. I remember thinking, I am spending my night walking around Manhattan arm in arm with a handsome Italian man. Not a bad way to spend an evening.
The spaces were large and empty at this time of night. The click of my heels echoed through the halls. “I like the way your boots sound.” I told you these boots were made for awesome.
He showed me all the different floors and the various offices and presentation spaces and then, all at once, there it was. His passion. He lit up talking about what he does, but damn did this job keep him busy. I was blown away by how he worked, how dynamically he spoke about the business, and what he had accomplished in his short time at this company. But, it became quickly obvious why he did not like to talk about work. He was impressive but did not want to be known this way as a potential partner. He wanted to be known as a family man who loved good pasta from small hole in the wall restaurants. There was more to him than his Wikipedia page and his exhausting LinkedIn profile. His work consumed him, but he wanted to focus on the three daughters that he would inevitable one day have. I felt a twinge of sadness.
Back on the street, he began to play music from his new American phone- calm, piano instrumental versions of modern songs. “Tell me more about circling the sky.” Yes, I was still curious. “Would you like to see?” “Sure.” I answered. Of course I did, especially now that I knew my helicopter guess was wrong. “I’ll have to take you up to my apartment. But don’t worry,” he added quickly. “Now that you know I’m not 60 and balding you can trust me.” He laughed a deep laugh at me. He genuinely thought that was a good joke. I couldn’t help but laugh as well.
In his lobby, I was introduced to the concierge who eyed me curiously. Yes, Matteo was with a woman. Clearly, this was a big deal. I also brushed elbows with a famous basketball player who I recognized but couldn’t name. Mellow music was still softly playing from Matteo’s pocket as we entered the elevator and headed up to what must’ve been like the 157th floor.
“I’m going to open the door and keep the lights off. Just walk forward.” I looked at him skeptically and he pointed at his hairline. “Still not balding. I’ll stay by the door so you’re more comfortable.” Now, that was gentlemanly.
He slightly pushed his door in and his apartment was dark, but a glow was radiating from the small crack of the door. The glow became brighter as he pushed open the door and my mouth dropped open. There, cutting through the complete darkness, was a picture window that spanned the entirety of the wall. That high above the city, it was remarkably quiet except for the somber piano music playing from a distance behind me. I gently put a hand on the window and stared down and out at the city surrounding me. I could see the neighboring boroughs, the connecting bridges, the illuminated sky scrapers, the boats on the river, The Statue of Liberty, and the yet to be finished One World Trade. Hell, I’m pretty sure I could see my house. It was stunning. At that moment, I had complete faith in my ability to produce three daughters. Yup. I could do it.
Matteo, the actual Matteo, was still standing by his door. What is my life right now?! This is
actually happening. To me.
“It’s beautiful,” I almost whispered and Matteo came to stand next to me with his hands in his pockets.
“You are beautiful.” Swoooooon. Now, if this were a romance novel, here is where he would scoop me up into his arms, in front of that window, and kiss me as deeply as he spoke. But he didn’t. “Come, let’s sit and talk some more. Work will be hard tomorrow. Will you pet my hair?” Pet his hair? I looked out the window. Sure, thing, Matteo. You got it.
I sat on his couch and he laid down beside me, placing his head on my knees. He grabbed my hand and put it in his hair. “Now you’ll know I’m not balding!” I smiled. With one hand in his hair and the other on his upper back, I realized, holy knots, this man is tense. Poor guy. That view comes at a high price.
“These boots. They smell like a woman’s boots.” Indeed they were, but I still don’t know what that means. Our chatter began to slow as we both started drifting off to sleep. “Here,” he said, “Let me make sure you get home safely.” He sat up, grabbed his phone and began punching buttons. “You’re not taking the subway home at this time of night.” Was it helicopter time!?
We headed back down the 342 floors and back into the lobby. The concierge smiled at me, remembered my name, and wished me goodnight. As we stepped outside, a car pulled up to the lobby doors. A man jumped out and opened the door for me. I looked at Matteo. “You called me a car?” He smiled and responded, “Maybe next time I’ll have them bring one of the 15.” No, he doesn’t kiss me here, either. He took my hands in his, lifted them to his face and kissed each one of my fingers. Then, he softly kissed each one of my cheeks and held the door as I slid into the back seat.
“I’m going to go take off my wig now.” He winked at me as he closed the car door. “Where to, Ms. Danna?” asked my driver. Everybody here knows my name…
Back at my Honda, I go to pay but the driver tells me Matteo has already taken care of it. I try to tip him but apparently that has already been taken care of as well. At least I get to thank him myself, and just as I reach for the handle of my car, I hear my phone. It’s Matteo.
“I hear you have arrived. I am glad you are as safe as you are beautiful. Goodnight.”
And it was. It was a good night indeed. I got home and laid my head on the pillow, feeling as though it hadn’t been real, almost as if it had been a fairytale. In this fairytale, however, a catfish can turn into a prince. And you don’t even need to kiss him.
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