“IT DOES MATTER!” Pete Ravage screams, in this brightly lit aisle, near the front of the department store. Passing shoppers pause with their carts, shoot querulous glances our way. Dylan and I exchange similar looks ourselves, wondering just how far Pete is willing to chase this ridiculous scheme.
We haven’t even gotten started, and this minor philosophical kerfuffle has already erupted between us. Considering the idea that Dylan and I have proposed as patently ridiculous, he is instead insisting upon…picking up a Pez dispenser for our triumphant night on the town.
“It’s just the kind of cutesy thing chicks like, you know?” he explains, during the ride over here. “It’s an icebreaker. I’m gonna offer them a piece of candy from my Pez dispenser, and that’ll be a conversation starter.”
Now that we’ve arrived at this huge, brightly lit retail emporium, the one nearest my apartment, his mood has taken a sudden, much less sunny turn. Christmas mere weeks behind us, their quite sizable Pez display is jammed with virtually nothing but discounted Santa Clauses and polar bears and elves. Snickering behind him, Dylan and I were skeptical of his gambit to start with, and are all the more so now.
“Oh, it doesn’t matter, man, just grab one!” I told him, which is what prompted that violent outburst, his insistence that this is, in fact, a decision of tremendous import.
Calming down somewhat, he now adds, while continuing to pick over the merchandise with the thoroughness of someone buying a brand new car, “what the fuck? I need a Looney Tunes or a Peanuts character, something like that, you know? Something a chick would think was cute.”
So it is that we are soon back in my car, creeping no more than thirty five in this steadily falling snow, up the road to another similar destination. And then a third. Yet the funniest thing about this odyssey might be that, though this business with the Pez wouldn’t necessarily preclude Pete participating in our prop idea as well — he could readily hedge his bets by attempting both — he continues to scoff at our idea, insisting, “that’ll never work.”
But we have discussed this for years, Dylan and I, and tonight we are finally putting these wheels into motion. There exists no doubt in our minds that women will respond to this ploy in a highly favorable fashion. Before we can put this theory to the test at last, however, we must first venture through the doors of this Cost Merchant Plus. I’m still laughing all the way in through the automatic doors and over to their candy aisle, where again Pete is facing surprising acreage of these timeless, so retroactively dorky they’re almost cool, candy dispensing toys. Although in this instance they are heavy on the Star Wars merchandise and he’s clicking his tongue all over again, pawing through untold Princess Leia and Luke Skywalker offerings.
“Dude, fuck this,” Dylan says, to me, “let’s leave him here and go check out their wedding rings.”
“Now you’re talking,” I reply, as we start in that direction.
“You guys are crazy. I’m telling you, that won’t work! Any girl will take one look at those and know you spent ten dollars on them.”
And yet, his speech all but settles the debate, in my mind. Though stalling for a moment as he reluctantly eyes the paltry Pez selection, Pete speedwalks a little to catch up with us, while we eventually backtrack and meander around enough to locate the jewelry counter, smack dab in the middle of the store. A lone unfortunate middle aged Asian woman, who is already struggling to some extent with the language, is stuck dealing with Dylan and me as we examine seemingly every wedding band they have to offer. Come to think of it, maybe this is no less ridiculous than Pete’s obsession over just the right Pez dispenser, although the distinction certainly feels critical, in this moment.
“I’m getting married,” Dylan explains to her, with a broad grin, just in case she hadn’t pieced this together somehow. To this she laughs and smiles, does her best to pronounce congratulations! without mangling it, somewhat of a mouthful even for those of us who consider this our native language. A process repeated when I chime in with a grinning, “I’m getting married, too!”
Though trying on plenty for size, Dylan and I both conclude that slight variations of their cheapest offerings will suffice just fine. Of course Pete continues to roll his eyes, smirk, and shake his head throughout, yet my point is that considering Cost Merchant Plus does in fact have wedding rings for sale, and they are not to my knowledge running a charity, this can only mean that plenty of people are legitimately buying theirs here. I.e. this means that only our ability to keep straight faces at the bar can doom this enterprise. I feel like there’s an analogy here somewhere, between the alleged quality of these rings, and the way that I’ve heard highbrow wine critics usually can’t tell the difference between midrange stuff and purported top shelf offerings when they are blindfolded. If one were really ambitious, I suspect he might even construct a metaphor for these crappy gold bands and the whole dog and pony show aspect of marriage as a whole — but I’ll leave that argument for someone else.
“You think she knew we were full of shit?” I wonder, after we walk away.
“I don’t know, it’s hard to tell sometimes with these Asians,” Dylan says, “they think you’re funny, they laugh. They don’t understand a word you’re saying, they laugh. They think you’re full of shit…they laugh.”
After leaving here, Pete has insisted we whip into yet another department store, where against astronomical odds he finally hits the jackpot. From an abundance of riches — such as a ton of comic book characters as well as the complete major Looney Tunes roster — he is able to snag a recent Bugs Bunny model of his beloved Pez prop. Fifteen minutes later, we finally arrive at our destination, another of these dance clubs tacked onto the end of a strip mall, Edgecrest Cafe. While I’m not really sure where this trend stems from, using the word “cafe” to describe a massive, sprawling dance club, it’s nonetheless a suitable target. Well lit and unfailingly crammed with available women, this Edgecrest Café is the ideal forum for giving these gadgets a whirl. Even if some have grumbled in the past, including Dylan and Pete on occasion, that this place is maybe too perfect, too trendy, for with the bright lighting and cornfield sized rooms, it’s easy to feel as though all eyes are on you, and seize up as a result.
Our primary challenge, then, lies in overcoming this hangup, just saying to hell with it and walking right up to these women. And I for one am seeing that these wedding rings already come in handy, before any effort is made, before we’ve even attained any results to tabulate — in that they act as almost a shield, providing confidence on their own. This is part of the positive feedback loop we’d hoped such props would generate, sure, but in a sense, I would almost prefer to downplay that aspect, to not suddenly become insanely bold just because I’m feeling bulletproof with this shiny gold object on my ring finger. Because that would actually not prove anything regarding whether or not this particular angle in fact works. The question is rather if this is demonstrably more successful, even when we’re acting like our regular old selves.
Still, action of some sort is surely needed. Did we expect that women would mob us the instant we walked in these doors, all because of the rings? Well, maybe, to some extent I suppose we did.
And yet it’s possible we might receive confirmation as mere scientists, distantly observing the data, without even participating ourselves. Dylan draws our attention to an intriguing scene at the closest bar, one involving this older but quite attractive blonde wearing a pink top and black skirt. She’s seated on the lap of this gentleman in a three piece suit and blue sports jacket, his own glittering gold wedding band reflecting the ample light.
He’s moving his knee up and down, while she rides it, sneakily though plainly getting off on this maneuver right here before us. Nobody else is paying them any mind, but this point is obvious if dedicating much attention to the duo — just as apparent as the subtle vibe, suspected and then later confirmed when we examine her left ring finger, that this is not his wife. Speculation fully verified when these two soon stand, and shake hands, as we overhear this dude say something to her about how he’s going home.
“What an idiot,” Dylan scoffs, under this breath, as Pete and I snicker in response.
Yet, as this figure moves slightly down the bar to tell some apparent work colleagues goodbye, the woman is just standing there, finishing off her drink and idly glancing around this churning sea of people. Plainly bored now, even, after this goober has gotten her all hot and bothered, only to abruptly call the whole thing off. In other words, a perfect target for our experiments, if we can figure out how to take advantage of the opportunity. We are busy debating the matter when the DJ abruptly switches gears, from a pulsating techno track to some slow country song.
“One of us should ask her to dance,” Pete suggests. Met by murmurs of assent that this is true, though we continue to remain rooted in place like morons.
“Fuck it, I’ll go ask her,” I declare, figuring that announcing it forces me to do such, a net positive because we’re never going to prove anything otherwise.
Approaching with a speed meant to discourage me from losing my nerve, I tap our lady in pink on the shoulder. She wheels around, wearing a friendly if cautious smile, as I nod toward the dance floor, where a handful of other couples are twirling slowly around, and ask if she would care to join me out there. Yet I can all but glimpse the gears grinding away in her head, as she hatches an escape plan — although a simple no would have sufficed, and in some weird way I appreciate her bothering to come up with an excuse.
“I’m sorry,” she says, accompanied by the standard teeth clenched, mouth drooping, half smile half grimace often cushioning such news. Then looks over at the bar, and grabs the married guy in the three piece, yanks him vaguely in our direction. Only the top of his body tilts this way, though he smiles gamely in playing along. “This is my husband!”
I make a joke to extricate myself from the scene, without feeling like too much of a dork. Although every impression we’ve had is confirmed when, not even fifteen minutes later, we observe that her alleged husband is gone, along with some presumed work chums. As she now sits alone at the bar, sipping a drink.
She must not have thought I was all that. Or else she’s just really into that guy, which I guess is obviously the case — and yet again, even in defeat, this is just more fuel for our theories. Debating both sides of this hotly contested ballet issue, we are standing off to the side of the action, near some booths beside the row of pool tables, without even otherwise paying much attention to our surroundings. Therefore my eyes, and surely theirs as well, are gliding over the nearby billiards enthusiasts, without necessarily registering anything we are seeing.
Once awareness of our surroundings sinks in, however, we realize that at the nearest red felted table before us, a trio of young, attractive females are just dinking around. What are the odds? Well, quite high, actually, but not a pack of them unencumbered by a bunch of either wishful or preexisting dudes. Which appears the case here, as they have no one else lurking about in the wings. Therefore following another of these brief board meetings, our council reaches a verdict in favor of me approaching them. In so doing I already have my eyes most of all on this redhead. Her long, wavy hair all but shimmering in this light, and bright blue eyes glittering even from here. Skinny, in tight jeans, with a soft, thick, cream colored sweater up top.
“How about teams?” I ask her, descending upon them without warning, after she’s finished her latest shot and is just standing off to the side, clutching her cue. “Three on three?”
Tonight our typical attack pattern has played out to form. Pete almost never says anything to these girls unless one of us initiates things first. Dylan doesn’t mind taking the reins, particularly if he’s enjoying an “on” night, but his preferred mode of operation is a one-on-one interaction, preferably seated at the bar. He seems to operate better solo, for whatever reason, though a perfectly capable wingman — which is crucial, because I often finagle my best results with exactly one friend by my side, as we engage with an equal number of women.
This three on three alignment, while seeming ideal, is far trickier to nail. A seamless ratio, though one that seldom pans out. Since you are all more likely to succeed if everyone has somebody to pair off with, more bodies added means greater complication. If just one of the three females doesn’t like us, her distaste stands a strong chance of ruining all our odds. She’ll start pulling some whininess card, if not actively sabotaging matters, both of which we have witnessed on countless occasions. She’ll nix every potential pairing by dragging her friends right out of here. Somewhere around six-on-six the size of the crowd begins to negate this effect, but anywhere between two-on-two and that distant point, you’re often in a brutal midrange minefield requiring great dexterity to navigate.
Still, it is the best option yet glimpsed by far, made even more so when the redhead looks to her pair of accomplices — a tall, skinny brunette and a shapely though somewhat sour-faced blonde — both of whom shrug, not exactly doing cartwheels yet game enough to oblige. Taking charge like we have known these girls all our lives, we gather the balls and rack them up, not even waiting for their current contest to conclude.
Well, Pete can have his silly Pez dispenser, but Dylan and I continue to believe these wedding rings are the only true trump cards we possess. Aside from the confidence imparted, it’s amazing how swiftly we also fall into this rhythm of knowing exactly how to act while wearing them. As in never mentioning such, certainly not holding our hands aloft and smiling at these artifacts — and of course not even dreaming of discussing our nonexistent wives. Otherwise, if managing this, as long as we hold the cards closely to our chest, the girls are perpetually disarmed, never sure where we’re coming from or if we’re even truly hitting on them. After all, we are respectable family men; how dare they suggest such a thing when all we want is to play some pool.
Pieces also immediately, wordlessly fall into place regarding even who pairs off with whom. Pete never digs anyone unless they weigh less than he, which means his interest swerves like a needle to this petite golden haired beauty, who must come in at all of 96 pounds. Dylan and I are well aware of this, to instinctively leave her alone, just praying that those two are able to coax some sparks into existence. Otherwise, as I’m partial to the redhead and have broken the ice with her anyway, it only makes sense to turn my attention there, while Dylan, who would have been game enough for any of these options, is doing just fine with the tall though quite cute brunette.
My redhead introduces herself as Ann, and though speaking to her a great deal, I save most visual appraisal for moments where she’s distracted, usually while taking a shot, where neither of her friends are paying me any mind, either. Already a major fan of this outfit she’s rocking, I observe that her smooth, blemish free, somewhat pixie-esque face is covered with a ton of cute little freckles, and that she also owns one exceptionally shapely backside.
Pool tables are charged by the hour here at the Edgecrest, and though I’m not sure whether this is a pimp move or a jackass one — the truth is, it never occurs to any of us — we never offer to pay. But when it’s time to refresh our drinks, I buy the first round for everybody, and Dylan the second. Aaron’s advice on the topic ignored, it just feels like the right move in this moment, which is maybe the best mindset to have about everything in this pickup game: it depends.
We have their wheels turning, wondering just what our deal is, and this is exactly where we need them to be. Especially Ann, with whom I have hit it off remarkably well from the outset. Once, as I am lining up to take a shot, I can spot her ahead of me, opposite and to the left, staring at this wedding ring, those overhead lights glinting off this brand new fake gold bright enough to blind all within sight of this table. And yet she doesn’t comment on this, nobody does.
During idle moments, it’s only natural to wonder what kind of progress my cronies are making with their respective projects. Dylan I had no doubt would fare alright with his brunette, if she was anywhere shy of the frostiest bitch ever, and he is indeed performing just fine with her, as they stand chatting over on the opposite side, near the wall. My only real concern is that Pete’s interaction with the short blonde will fail to spark, and yet these two have seemingly developed a solid connection, too, have in fact given up on future games of pool, to sit in a booth and converse, leaving Ann and me to square off against Dylan and his target.
What are the odds on three separate scores from this lone encounter? Not great, and yet in a sense that doesn’t matter, not if we are truly team players. The main consideration is that we all do well enough not to blow it for the other guys. Something will come of this, it now seems certain. At which point we should have a small if pertinent data set to work with, concerning how these props have fared.
Speaking of which, to this point I’m admittedly not paying perfect attention, and am unsure if Pete’s deployed his Bugs Bunny yet. But as I stand here, watching Ann take a shot, I’m able to overhear Pete and his girl talking, her telling him about a relocation to Chicago soon for school. Then I happen to glance in that direction right when Pete casually whips out the Pez dispenser, offers a candy to his romantic interest.
“Ugh! No thanks!” she says, forcibly recoiling from him as though he had just declared that these were roofies.
When this latest game ends, the girls are milling around anyway as though anticipating our next move. I feel the best maneuver is for us to split much sooner than the average guy would, in other words implying we’re on strict schedules, to leave them wanting more.
“Come on,” I motion to Ann, “I’m going to pay out my tab, you should write down your phone number.”
“I’m not giving you my phone number!” she protests, but comes along anyway as I stride up to the bar.
“True,” I grin, “after all, I could be some kind of stalker…”
“That’s right,” she smiles, “but I’ll take your phone number.”
Fair enough. I scribble down my digits for her, we all shake hands and say sayonara, the three of us split as they continued to hang around right where we found them. Dylan doesn’t even bother asking for digits, and Pete, completely rattled after being shot down so viciously in his candy offer, looks shellshocked, as if he might return to the trenches and reassess his tactics before venturing out to these clubs again.
Score after opening kickoff: Wedding Rings 1, Pez Dispensers 0.
In other news: I’m digging this service by Books2Read that just gives you one universal link for your books. So if for example you’re interested in picking up my latest novel, Well-Behaved Monsters, I don’t have to worry about steering readers to any specific store. They can just click here and choose the destination of their choice:
https://books2read.com/wellbehavedmonsters
It’s a pretty sweet service and completely free. So for you authors out there, you might want to look into it. Readers, I would definitely encourage you to click on my link and check this out as well!
Thanks and have a great week!
