If Aaron is the slightly older, composed and well put together friend, then Robby is the crass inversion of those attributes. Slightly older than us as well, and even usually dressing snazzily when out on the town, but his behavior lies at the universe’s other edge, his boorish jackass antics often discovered in some distant realm light years beyond our own. As is often the case, though, with many such individuals, he definitely seems to act up more when surrounded by an audience, and if not that then alone with his woman. If just hanging out with one of us guys, however, his theatrics are kept to a minimum, tempting a casual observer to believe that he’s a really chill, laid back character, at the rotting core of this public persona.
Such is the case on this frosty, early January eve, as it’s somehow just him and me and not a whole lot of other people in our favorite dive bar, Triads Lounge. We never discussed meeting here, or anything. But this place is only about two blocks away from my house, close enough that, despite the cold, I am readily able to walk here, as I have done just now. Bored on a winter’s weeknight, the apartment as still and quiet as an Ohio cornfield, seeming all the more so following the somewhat action packed weekend. Home from work, tired of my endless packing for the move, I drifted up here, pleasantly surprised to encounter Robby. Miles removed from the other scattered patrons, at a corner seat of the rectangular central bar. There’s so much available acreage that he has the local paper deconstructed, its various sections scattered on the bar top all around him.
“What are you doing here?” I cackle.
“Waiting on my girlfriend,” he explains, appearing nonplussed, though I suspect at least somewhat appreciative of my arrival.
“Oh yeah? She meeting you here?”
“No, she works at Accomplices,” he says, half turning to tilt his chin at the side wall of windows, the cluster of buildings up the street, “she’s a dancer there.”
“Oh, that’s right.”
Considering that he and Joe are basically the only two close friends who have a serious woman in their lives, we might detect a trend here. The only difference is that while Sly Fox, where Angel dances, is fully nude, the girls at Accomplices wear panties and pasties. As many of us have noted, while there’s never a complete correlation — and Angel for example, no matter what we think of her personality, is pretty freaking hot — the standard tradeoff is that fully nude places usually don’t pull in the same class of girls. Neither the same class in appearance, nor the same class in, well, class. Having said that, I’ve never really hit it off with Robby’s girlfriend, Charity, either, mostly because she too is actively unpleasant. Aside from this sour note, while possessing an okay body, her face doesn’t do it for me, the fake black hair framing her deep salon tan not really my cup of tea. Although I know plenty of guys who would disagree.
Regarding this concept as a whole, though, the first kneejerk reaction is to give Joe and Robby high fives, or anyone else pulling in a stripper. It does after all at first glance seem like an amazing accomplishment, both to those on the outside, and as the male in question — which I should know, having gone on about two dates with one just a few years ago myself. The reasons why this is not true become soon apparent, however. Mine just didn’t have anything happening upstairs, and I was bored out of my skull in shockingly short order. I think Charity and Angel offer a smidgen more mentally, if not substantially so, but even in their cases, the other problem is that while there are some dear, sweet girls in that profession, and even if you’ve roped in one that’s somehow avoided the huge druggie culture, these two still project the common personality defects endemic to this profession: requiring constant attention, pouting often, and acting quite childish whatever the occasion. So yeah…not to take anything away from my pals, their women look fine and everything, and hopefully it works out for them. But this business with the strippers, what it actually felt like for me, firsthand, is more of a last-stone-left-unturned type semi-desperation move, rather than a triumph. Which I believe was readily apparent on Joe’s open book of a facial expression, at the end of Saturday night, with Angel’s tits mashed against my windshield.
Robby has no idea when his girlfriend is getting off work tonight, which is also true more often than not. So as I take the sports section hostage from his paper, he stands up, says he’ll return in a few as he exits through the side door, clad only in a thick sweater and some equally padded sweatpants of some sort, hiking boots, but no coat. Suddenly I understand his somewhat disheveled appearance this evening, his spiky brown hair resembling a serious case of bedhead, tossed every which way.
As he momentarily exits the building, I have an opportunity to appraise the landscape. Arriving at a ballpark estimate doesn’t take long, however, considering that, apart from me and the wisecracking bartender, Jeff, there are two old guys seated at a high top table, another duo closer to my age throwing darts in the corner, and otherwise four females. One with some dude at the opposite end of the bar, and then a trio huddled over drinks in a distant booth. Oh, and now the dart throwing bros are leaving, at roughly the same time two more girls drift in, accompanied by a lone male.
“Okay, so there are six girls in here at the moment, right?” Curtis murmurs, moments later, leaning one elbow on the bar with an intrigue laden grin.
“Yeah?”
“I’ve fucked four of them,” he says, beaming at having delivered his theoretically truthful punchline.
This is maybe an empty boast, I’m not sure, but don’t really care either way. His confession doesn’t alter my strategy in the slightest — possibly because there is no strategy, a casual observer might joke. While the thought of a close friend sleeping with some chick before me has always felt somewhat icky, (ed. note: this does not apply to situations where I tapped it first, some other friend went there after me, and then maybe I revisited such at a late date; for example Lily, who went from me to Joe and back again), it doesn’t bother me in the least bit if a stranger or minor acquaintance has nailed her. All the same, I don’t press for details, hilarious as these typically are when delivered by Jeff, primarily because I fear it might mess up my mojo.
My only plan, such as it is, revolves around sitting here, leisurely thumbing through a paper, sipping a beer, but then promising myself that if any woman ventures anywhere near my barstool, I will speak to her. And not even really reading, at least not without considerable mental detours, because my mind is mostly going over all the crazy stunts Dylan and some of the other fellows and I have discussed, and which of these we are going to implement first.
One possible prospect, a curly haired brunette with fantasy inducing lips and a body to match, approaches the bar, just left of the post Robby recently deserted. She’s from that trio over in the booth and, while I rack my brain for something clever to say, before conceding that it really doesn’t matter because stupid conversation is better than no conversation at all, an idea slowly forms in my head. Triads doesn’t serve food, so she and her friends have just ordered sandwiches from some bistro next door, as one girl just returned with them. After requesting another glass of cabernet, Jeff casually asks this one what she’s eating, and we learn that it’s a turkey club.
“Turkey and wine are a dangerous combination,” I playfully advise, piping up from my perpendicular seat.
She slowly turns to face me, her thick, luscious lips pulled up into a smile. “You think so?”
“Oh yeah. You’ll be struggling to keep your eyes open a half hour from now. You should drink this instead,” I tell her, picking up my Rolling Rock for demonstration.
“It’s all the same,” though, she says.
“Mmm, yyyyes, to some extent, but…I seriously don’t see myself passing out at the bar. You will be, however, over there at your table.”
To this she offers a merry if all too brief chuckle. Then, upon receiving her glass, retreats facing my direction — which is maybe a 50/50 proposition, technically, though certainly feeling like a good sign — and then further underscores this impression by smiling at me, raising and tilting her wine glass ever so slightly, as some sort of cheer before rejoining her friends.
While pondering these matters, internally rating my performance, I spot some motion outside the panel of side windows, and can see Robby out there, pacing back and forth, smoking while he also talks on his phone. Then he returns, to fling his lanky frame into the same seat as before, shortly before those two old gents across the bar stand up and leave.
“What’s the score?” I ask him.
“Eh she says it’s gonna be at least another half hour,” he explains, nodding and holding up one finger, simultaneously, down the bar at Jeff, for another of whatever mixed drink he’s sipping this evening.
Having moved onto the Lifestyle section of the paper, without any better ideas for occupying myself, I milk this diversion for as long as possible. While continuing to knock back the cheap beer, and pondering where to take things from here, not only tonight but moving forward. That whole notion about leaning into our weirdness and inconsistencies, that not only seems less inspired during this much more subdued moment, but it’s something I’m seeing might be difficult to pull off without at least one sidekick, or even a whole pack of likeminded dudes. The question is, what kind of stunts and/or props might one deploy while alone? Would someone like Robby or Aaron have interest in these concepts, or would they consider us just as bizarre as the females do? Am I really convinced any of these outlandish schemes work better than the simple conversation I just attempted with that brunette, which, however lame, painful, and time consuming, eventually does get somewhere, with somebody, sooner or later?
But a means to shorthand and speed up these experiments must exist. Otherwise we might spend years just to discover it’s a total waste of time. Well, who knows. More consideration and greater debate are needed on these topics. In the meanwhile, another scene appraisal is in order.
While that pack of hotties in the booth is an alluring target, and I have broken the ice with one of them, they are also huddled close, snickering, all but whispering about whatever drama suffused intrigue it is that they are discussing. That wouldn’t appear the easiest target. More promising is this situation offered by the other group, who have alternately occupied a high top, played some pool, and fiddled with the jukebox. The skinny little blonde with long, straight hair is the prize jewel in that pack, and seems much more approachable. There is also the potential consolation prize of that heavy set blonde with the merry laugh and somewhat cute face. Yes they are accompanied by some dude, this humorless looking preppie type with his own jet black hair gelled neatly into formation, but he doesn’t seem attached to either of them. Is possibly just a coworker, or something to that effect.
I’m debating what approach might work best with that pair, when as it turns out, I don’t even have to. For moments later, Jeff is leaning on the bar near Robby and me, as we pontificate a litany of totally meaningless topics. Like A Virgin erupts from the jukebox behind us, though, followed by some laughter and squeals of protests. Then the two blondes are striding past us, bound for their high top table.
“I played this for my friend,” the heavier blonde explains to all three of us, nodding at her petite sidekick, “she’s a virgin.”
In response to this, blushing profusely, this comment’s intended target shoves its issuer. But the somewhat larger girl just laughs hysterically, mouth widening into an admittedly captivating, dimple laden smile as she does so, and we guys join her. Then they continue onward to their table, where the bored looking, apparently platonic sidekick sits swirling his ice cubes in a glass, occasionally glancing this way.
As the night progresses, every time they need a fresh drink, these two girls approach the bar together, and make idle conversation with Robby and me. They never tip their hand as to which they prefer, if either, and it’s a warm, relaxed interaction, one I can readily see leading somewhere, to the extent I don’t even sweat netting a phone number, for it looks a foregone conclusion where this is heading.
Props? Who said anything about needing outrageous props, I am thinking with a chuckle, having dipped into the men’s room to take a leak. At this point, though having stuck around for over an hour, Robby finally strode off into the night, to meet his girlfriend, leaving the newspaper scattered every which way along the bar’s surface. Those other three women have left, as have the couple at the far end of the bar, meaning it’s just me and Jeff and those blondes with the one dude. It’s only maybe 12:15, at the latest, but I too plan on leaving now, as a light snow has kicked up and work beckons all too early in the morning. But before I bolt, I have it all planned, I’m going to drift past their table and ask for a phone number.
If they don’t just hand it to me, that is. This was clearly the type of night where we’ve already hit it off so well, they would surely drift past to say goodbye before splitting themselves. Except I exit the restroom and can spot right away that their table is deserted. Apart from Jeff and me, the only other occupants of this entire bar are these four college age guys who have recently entered and immediately attacked the pool table. So much for that. Fighting not just the flurries but an increasingly sharp wind, for the couple of blocks that I am traipsing home, that last twist feels like a referendum vote on playing it straight. One which came down to the wire, but was ultimately a losing effort. Now there is no turning back. Onward it is, to the first major prop Dylan and I have discussed, which has the added advantage in that we can deploy it while alone.
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