Eventually, blessedly, Joe talks Angel into pouting instead at that corner table with Dylan, Pete, and Phil. When they leave, Aaron and I move a few steps closer to the dance floor railing, a seemingly prime spot right by the gap in said railing, but also at the edge of the major central aisle, separating it and the bar. Joe once laughed, months upon months ago, and said to me about Aaron, after a night which was very similar to this one even though we all had girlfriends with us back then, “you two act like you’re brothers!”
“Yeah, I don’t know, it’s kinda weird,” I admitted, “I haven’t really even known him all that long. And what do we hang out now, like, twice a year, maybe? But it’s pretty much always been like that…”
Although this is probably true of any combination of us guys who are out here tonight, the whole brothers bit, I guess we did hit it off from the outset. If there is a sibling vibe here, then Aaron is clearly the somewhat older one, both as an actual historical truth but also in the dynamic. Even as I am forever attempting to catch up. It isn’t so much that I need to prove anything to him, but more to myself, that I am capable of hanging in here as an equal. But yes, I have continually attempted to learn things in the process as well.
Has the reverse ever proven true, however? He has delivered a high five or two, sure, but this felt more like proving that I belonged on the basketball team, or something, maybe coming up with a good score to keep your mob boss happy for a little while. Proving my worth, justifying my spot on the roster. However, I’m not sure there has ever been a specific point that I’ve made, or an angle that I’ve come up with, which gave him pause or for that matter even made him think that I had figured something out which he had not.
All of which might explain why I continue with this one fresh wrinkle tonight. Or at least in part. Mostly it’s that this is the solitary sliver of sunlight peeking through the clouds, the lone semi-interesting spin I’ve yet to put on this nightlife equation. And that therefore, I had best keep pursuing it, even while still possessing no idea whatsoever how to take the next step, from here. But am I claiming there is no showoffiness here whatsoever, that I am also not trying to impress Aaron and the other guys, to some degree, that I am bold and/or crazy enough to try this? No, I could not claim such, not with a straight face.
“Whew, look at her! Aaron marvels, as a leggy blonde in tight silver slacks and a shiny purple blouse strolls past, standing above both of us, with a figure fit for filming high end porn. Even though, in this instance, on her other side, she is accompanied by an ever taller male, by appearances her significant other.
I don’t even think about what I’m doing, ingrained as it has suddenly become upon my basic nightlife shtick. Almost a reflex, now. She passes and I swiftly smack her left ass cheek, in a simple fluid motion.
“Whew!” she shouts, startled more than anything else, even as she’s all smiles in turning around.
“You got it!” I shout, again the overzealous coach, grinning myself as I shoot the finger pistols her way.
The woman beams even more broadly, bringing her shoulders together not as a shrug, but rather the way someone will when sharing a conspiratorial giggle with you. Then she laughs and keeps on moving, as her man, who reluctantly stopped and half turned our way, brows furrowed and looking impatient, does the same. Aaron is nodding, hand on chin, both filing the moment away for later use himself and also, possibly admiring but definitely furiously considering my technique. It seems I could possibly teach even the master something after all.
“Chicks like that stuff…,” Aaron mutters, delivered as a speculative but nearly confirmed theory, his eyes upon her still as she fades into the smoke-machine-fogged distance, “they like the abuse…”
He has his hypothesis, I have mine. Here, I believe, I’ve found a way to counter the height disadvantage, in that surely a more physically imposing guy doesn’t get away with this crap. Our supermodel in purple and silver, after all, was strolling with another male of equal stature when she passed, but this didn’t stop me, nor did it precipitate any retaliation on their part. I don’t think it has so much to do with liking the abuse as it she is looks at me and can’t believe I did what I just did, while at the same time finding it essentially harmless. And yes, maybe she’s more than a little bit flattered.
So yes, a ballsy icebreaker, but just that — the challenge is I now must find something to say. Except the tall, purple bloused blonde is now dancing on the floor, nearly alone out there. Every guy in the place is checking her out, and she knows it. We mostly believe that we can hold our own in reasonably non-embarrassing fashion out there, although historically this has accomplished far less than even shouting above the fixture rattling beats. Consensus therefore has it that the only way we’re ever going to get anywhere with her is to wait until she stops dancing and sits down somewhere, at which point we’ll drop into the seats around her and say hello.
After sneaking intermittent peeks at her for quite some time, throughout our overarching appraisal of this entire club, she finally tires or else just grows bored with this scene and drifts away, cuts through the masses onto the other side of the club, past the bar, and into a back section where another cluster of tables awaits. Surreptitiously we tail her, thinking ourselves clever and bold, only to cringe in horror again as she plops down at a table with about eighteen other dudes to maybe three females.
Fuck this, we say, and retreat to our former post, throwing in the flag altogether. Not that Aaron necessarily has anything to worry about. I get the feeling that he’s just playing along for kicks, that coming here was but one of many options, and he always has others on the table. Forever on the prowl for an upgrade, sure, because who isn’t, but nothing more. And all but confirming this impression, he shakes my hand and says he’s dipping out, as this highly anticipated night out clubbing on the town, my first since the breakup with Jenna, suddenly looks a lot less lustrous.
But there is one tiny glimmer of hope, in that before I even reach that dreadful, dingy corner booth, Phil appears before me, seated in a row of mostly abandoned stools at the rectangular central bar. Joining everyone else over in that corner seems so miserable that I feel like we may as well pack it in instead. Yet this, this I can live with, the difference between remaining on one’s feet above ground versus having your body lowered into a hole and dirt thrown atop it.
Observing that he is doing whiskey shots while nursing a beer — not the least bit surprising — I claim the chair to his right and order just the latter myself. And this is a great opportunity for a couple reasons, not just in that it allows me to believe this night is still alive, for we are able to discuss strategy of a different sort. At the end of the month, I am moving out of the apartment I shared with Jenna, into a cheaper one that is also much closer to my work. At which point Phil is going to drive his belongings down in a truck, to claim the spare bedroom.
I’m actually somewhat surprised he even agreed to tonight’s excursion, considering he is not the least bit the dance club type. But he likely reckoned they would have decent whiskey and cheap beer pretty much anywhere. This all black uniform making him even more invisible than he otherwise would be, though, blending that much more into the background. Though if any stranger whatsoever dropped into his midst, Phil would surely talk that person’s ear off, he is not going to chase anyone around the club, would never be caught in any form out on the floor.
After discussing the moving arrangements in detail, detail I’m having trouble getting too inspired about at present, he shifts to pontificating at length over his recently lined up next gig. He’s all set to start as a crew member for some prominent local contractor, I knew that much. Yet though he brings impressive passion and entertaining body language, no less the vocabulary, to any discussion, this isn’t necessarily what I want to talk about right now, either. What are we here for, after all?
Phil is turned my way when he speaks, much of the time, and thus can see over my shoulders. When a short, striking little firecracker strides our way, with radiant, straight yellow locks falling to her neckline, in a shimmering black blouse and tight jeans, he nods in that direction and says, “hey yo, get a load of this one,” mid-sentence, before resuming his diatribe about what a bunch of hacks he works with on his current job sites.
I crane my head that way, to risk a peek at her, and am duly impressed. Less commendable, however, is how she too is accompanied by some guy, in this case a vaguely gym rat looking guy — he is wearing the loose fitting white tank top, but otherwise isn’t particularly ripped. Which initially douses all enthusiasm. Except those ever pesky wheels start turning, and here I go thinking about this swell idea of mine again. And I guess somewhere in the back of my mind this thought is buried about possibly impressing Phil just a little bit with this stunt, but also that, should anything go haywire, at least I have a bunch of friends scattered here around the bar.
So as she passes, has just pretty much drawn even with Phil’s chair, I spin around and pop her on the ass. The only difference this time is that for whatever reason, likely owing to the distance she’s already covered, the somewhat awkward sight lines, and a seemingly increased overall volume, I don’t shout out my customary tag line. As far as a reaction goes, they both just stop, as the blonde looks at the two of us, open mouthed. Her man merely blinks his eyes, appearing dumbfounded, understandably not having the first clue what transpired. Phil throws his hands up and shakes his head, wordless shorthand for “that wasn’t me,” while I kind of halfway lean out of my chair, smile, and nod in her direction. Then those two simply turn around and walk off.
“Duuuuuuuude,” Phil cackles, takes a swig of his beer before adding, “what the fuck? I mean, don’t get me wrong, bro, I’m down for whatever, ya know? But I’m not lookin to get mixed up in a big fuckin brawl tonight just ’cause one of my buddies smacked some chick on the ass.”
And then laughs again. I suppose he has a point — well, no, he definitely has one, and I should probably stop for that reason alone — but what can I say? Maybe the missing “you got it!” shout made this one land not quite as well as the others. Yet despite any armchair quarterbacking anyone might offer, though I know various media outlets would enjoy a field day with this angle, were I somebody famous or something, though a table full of females were sitting together over coffee would all click their tongues in agreement that this behavior is deplorable…I still believe that this is actually working, and that furthermore, what Aaron had speculated was true: out here in the wild, absent any need to cave to majority rules and hold the party line, these chicks seem to actually kind of dig it.
Is it wrong, though? Obviously I don’t think so, or I wouldn’t be doing it. In this feverish climate, where everyone’s running around with hair trigger tempers and readily offended over just about anything, the argument is dismissed out of hand before anybody even considers it. Yet I might like to extend the unusual viewpoint that this ass smack is less offensive than what these girls are subjecting themselves to out there on the dance floor, right now, here, and in countless other clubs just like it throughout this wondrous land. Random dudes are approaching from every angle, ramming their junk into the girls’ backsides, if not taking things a little farther. And you know, the ladies seem mostly okay with this, up to a point. They know it’s part of the deal when they step out there.
Compare this to the ass smack. I am keeping my distance, I make no effort to approach them unless they openly encourage it. They are always accompanied by some friends, or even some other guy. I touch them in the same manner a coach would his or her players, before taking the field, or returning from a spectacular play. I even shout a similar word of encouragement, and then they are on their merry ways.
But here, potential tragedy strikes. Or at least it’s a wildly unforeseen development, forcing me to possibly reconsider. A couple minutes after they’ve left our sight, the blonde comes flying back alone, and although it seemed clear from any vantage point who was responsible for the ol’ posterior palmside, based upon our body language a few moments ago, for some reason she approaches and gets right in Phil’s face. So I’m twisted in my chair, to peer around him, shouting, “whoa! Whoa! Hey!” type comments, to direct the heat my way instead, and Phil’s shaking his head, jerking a thumb back at me, while this chick apparently rants, with an index finger held up to his nose.
Except then the entire narrative shifts. I’m not even sure what he says to her, but the next thing I know, she’s laughing and placing a hand upon his right shoulder, all in one conjoined motion. She stands here so long that, although he appears to just idly play with his cocktail napkin, it turns out Phil knows some kind of origami stunt, and has nimbly folded it into the shape of a rose. Upon which he scribbles his number and hands it to her, before she strolls away.
“Wow! Talk about a turn of events! What was that all about?” I ask.
“Well, ya know. She comes flyin at me sideways and gettin in my face about smackin her on the ass, and I’m like,” he throws up his hands, “hey, don’t look at me, lady. Then I told her what I told you, ya know, I’m like I’m not tryin to start this big fuckin brawl because one my buddies smacked some chick on the ass. Then she starts laughin and she’s like I’m just fuckin with ya!”
“So she was cool with it?”
“Yeah,” he shrugs, “I mean, whatever, ya know.”
“I’ll be damned…,” I muse, trailing off as I ponder the implications of this.
“Yeah, I don’t know, man. She seemed alright. She said her name’s Deena and that wasn’t even her boyfriend. I don’t know, dude. I gave her my number so we’ll see if anything happens.”
I have often wondered about this, in fact, not anything specific about tonight, but whether Phil can hold his own with the ladies in general. He’s already committed to moving in with me, so it’s a done deal, but at the same time I’ve secretly hoped he isn’t total dead weight in that department. The last thing anyone wants is a roommate who is horrible around women, who might even potentially drive away yours. Based on this showing, though, I’m guessing he must do okay.
But the larger point here is what just went down. We are clearly not the most politically correct bunch on the planet, and yet the major takeaway from this, as during lesser episodes in the recent past, is…so what? It’s not necessarily what you would read online, or in a magazine, or even what, yes, a group of females would click their tongues over during tea and crumpets and agree at that moment is just horrific. Yet there is no documentarian trailing us around with a video camera. The New York Times is not writing columns about our dating lives. These aren’t trendy things to admit, maybe, but that has a real world value of approximately zilch. You can call this some horrible behavior, but I’m not so sure. Nobody seems all that bothered by it, and beyond this, I would say it’s clearly moving the chains forward for us.
As the night draws to a close, I find that this barmaid is maybe the most exciting prospect I’ve met all night. Slightly shorter than me, with wavy, dark black hair, halfway down her shoulders — friendly, too, and even if you can dismiss that as just working for tips, not everyone bothers. We’ve encountered a million rude as hell bartenders, and whether or not one believes that is their shtick, I’m of a mind that after x years on the job, if not sooner, people basically just start acting like themselves anyway. Whatever the case, impressed by Phil’s origami rose magic, I have him walk me through the steps, and then leave this for our barmaid with my digits upon it. Surely nothing will come of this overly ambitious art project, but who knows.
We are leaving well before closing time, but there’s still this pesky matter of those cars parked over at the sports bar restaurant across town. Angel can take Joe to get his, in the morning perhaps, and although it would make sense for Phil to ride with them, her boxy little ride will not support another adult, particularly not a figure as tall as he. So he’ll crash at my old place, along with Dylan and Pete, and at some point tomorrow one of us will drive him over there.
As we are sorting this out, having parked on a somewhat quiet residential street that borders this strip mall, I feel nature calling and dip over into some nearby bushes to take a leak. Angel has already started her car, to defrost it, as have I, with the headlights fully illuminating a wide oval surrounding our conjoined vehicles, including the sidewalk and gap between them where everyone else continues to speak. Pete and Phil, I can hear, have already said their goodbyes, and climbed into the back of my battered deathtrap.
Dylan is in the process of settling into the passenger seat, already seated but not yet closing the door, as I return. He was talking to a wisecracking, quite wasted Joe, except as I’m making my way back to the pack, all conversation has abruptly stopped, like birds in the middle of a total eclipse. I’m lost within some memories and chuckling to myself about a couple earlier developments, not even necessarily paying attention, until I near the sidewalk and glance up at last, realize the reason for the sudden conversational brake slam.
Angel has climbed onto the hood of my car and, inspired by who knows what, yanked up all three layers covering her sizable, floppy, now totally barren breasts — coat, shirt, and bra — as she then smooshed these massive planets together and slammed them against the glass of my windshield, affording my chums inside a highly detailed view. I can’t really see a ton from where I’m at, just enough to confirm that this is truly happening. After which my eyes instinctively glide over to Joe, standing on the sidewalk over by his girlfriend’s car, as we exchange a perplexed glance. His expression says it all, easily summarized as what the fuck? In this moment, he looks a little sad and embarrassed that this is the woman to which he is currently saddled.
Then our collective ensembles separate, as Angel laughs and hops off, restoring order with her garments in one fluid motion, and both vehicles turn a different direction at the light. We’ve barely even done so before Dylan offers his take on this situation.
“Man, I’ve never liked that chick much, but she really didn’t impress me tonight,” he says.
And though to a man we all murmur our consensus, not a whole lot more is said on the topic. We’ve got our own artifacts to unearth, and are busy deconstructing the evening’s various twists and turns. These responses are all over the map, ranging from Pete Ravage, who made no effort with anyone yet still has a lot to offer on the subject, to Phil Laswell, putting on an admirable display with that short blonde but curiously somewhat tight lipped about it now. He has more to say about the dubious ass smack gambit, in fact, than he does about that girl.
Dylan and I fall somewhere in between, although it turns out that this thread we get on will have the greatest impact over the months if not years to come. Soon enough, though with much less enthusiasm, the other two are chiming in with their own thoughts as well. Talk about the ass smacks somehow mutates into a topical discussion about what other kind of outrageous stunts might get us somewhere with these females, even if disputing that this one did.
Which itself evolves into tackling this in broad, philosophical terms. We are students of this game, after all, and trite examinations won’t suffice. Even sleeping with chicks, we like to chalk that up as “research.” We must examine the very scaffolding, under-girding these nightlife excursions, no less the entire male-female dynamic as a whole. And in this moment, it’s as though an entire worldview is flipped upside down. I can’t speak for the others — although it appears to strike Dylan in equally profound terms, even Pete to a lesser degree — but for me, it’s as though I’ve looked at everything in completely upside down fashion this entire time, we all have.
Because the mantra we’ve repeated, to varying degrees, to ourselves if not the others, is that we are too inconsistent and weird, that keeping up any semblance of normalcy for more than two or three weeks is too great a burden, and that this is the reason that our efforts landing hotties have proven so scattershot. And this is probably true, but if so, maybe just because we believe it — or rather, that we never considered the inverse.
Gimmicks are just gimmicks, after all, we’ve been thinking and saying, and really just something you resort to if you don’t have anything else up your sleeves. But what if this weren’t true? What if you had so much faith in the weirdness and the inconsistency and the gimmicks that these became an attraction instead, no matter how preposterous they seemed on the surface? Then you would have no reason to run away from these basic tendencies. Then, they would turn instead to a strength.
I’m reminded of this story about Robert De Niro, something a former costar was talking about in a book that I once read. How he kept showing up for rehearsals every single day chomping on breadsticks for hours on end, every single practiced take, until it became time to do it for real. His explanation was, that although this performance had nothing to do with breadsticks whatsoever, and he couldn’t explain it, this prop was what he needed to get into the proper mindset for the role. Until one day he no longer did, when the moment arrived to roll film. The prop itself was perpetuating the magic.
Dylan and I, if no one else, can relate. We are going to find some props and/or other gimmicks to run with, to throw ourselves fully into, and see where these will take us with these females. We are so pumped up about this concept, he and I, that discussion of such will carry us into my apartment, over beers, as Pete and Phil mostly try to fall asleep on the couches and floor instead, giving up an hour or so into our feverish discussions.
What other ideas are floating out there in the ether, waiting for some intrepid soul to reach out and snatch? The possibilities are endless. The era of outrageous experiments has begun.
