A Thousand Tiny Failures : Memoirs of a Pickup Artist (13 page)

Penticton
(Small town sluts)

On my way back to
Vancouver
, I stopped in
Penticton
for my sister’s wedding. My home is a small tourist town in the interior of
British Columbia
,
Canada
. It was carved out of the mountain by an ancient bastard of a glacier that over a five thousand year melt crawled its way to death (transformation?), leaving a desert valley and two magnificent lakes on either end. When I grew up here, an insecure, creative kid, I didn’t think I would ever leave. I feared I’d meet a nice girl and knock her up. Maybe I’d slave in a lumber mill, or a seafood restaurant. It wouldn’t be an unfortunate life—but not the stuff of legend or song.

I met my mom and sisters again. It was nice to see them. They asked about my trip, but I couldn’t tell them what I’d really been up to; they wouldn’t understand. They asked if I had a girlfriend yet. I told them I didn’t plan to get married, or have kids, so they would need to make twice the babies. They just laughed. They’re so cool.

Alexandro
used to harass me about it, “Man, don’t you want to have kids one day?”

“Why?” I’d say.

“Why? Because that’s what people do.”

“Nah. I want to travel, make romance, adventure, fame.”

“You just haven’t met the right girl. One day you will and you’ll want to put a baby in her.”

“Fuck that. I don’t want it. I can barely afford rent, never mind a baby. Maybe I’ll get fixed.”

“You’re crazy. You’ll have kids one day.”

“No I won’t. What’s in it for me?”

He thought for a second.

“Who will take care of you?”

“Money.”

“No one will love you.”

“My brothers, nieces, nephews, sisters and their children, and all my ex-girlfriends and their children will love me.”

“Ha
ha
. Man, you’re a crazy man. Don’t you want to get married?”

“No. I will never get married. It’s madness. I’ve got nothing against being with one woman for eternity and beyond, but marriage makes no sense for me. I’m not a huntsman in the
Sudan
, and I don’t need some priest or lawyer to write a contract stating if I fall out of love I must fund my ex-woman for life.”

“Ha
ha
. Fuck Sebastian, you’re crazy. You’ll see. You’ll meet the right one. You just haven’t met her yet.”

He’s wrong, you’re right.

“Love is transitory.”

“Whatever man. You’ll find her.”

And at least once a week we’d argue about whether or not I’d have babies. But I just didn’t see the point of marriage or children. Sure when you’re old and feeble you’ll have someone to wipe your ass and feed you porridge. You’ll get to watch your younglings grow up bright and strong—and then, well then comes the disappointment. They decide to sell pot for a living, or they’re lazy, or they get addicted to video games and they end up hating you for being a parent since you represent oppression, and the ideals of a generation they have nothing in common with. Book Readers, they’ll call us.

Eventually, after fighting about their fucked-up lifestyle or their choice of friends, they’ll scream, “Fuck you Dad. I hate you!” and run away—only to contact you when they need money for food, drugs, or shelter. In the meantime your wife grows fat, cuts off access to her vagina, and you retire into a placid spiral of suburban torpidity. Yeah. No marriage or children for me.

Les
Trois
, Part 1:
Carly

(Luck is a quantum anomaly manifested by desire + action)

Ok, let’s talk about me and how awesome I am, again.
Montreal
was my nest, and I fell like the runt until my feeble wings would flap. One day in
Penticton
, I picked up three different girls; proof that city women are spoiled with choice, and that small towns would be easier. The first one I pulled out of a coffee shop, another off the beach, and the third from a bar. The barista was
Carly
. She was eighteen, tall, blond, and incredibly pretty. I scouted her behind the counter, and asked for the bathroom key. Then I said, “Hey. What do you do for fun in this town?”

“Me. I just go to the beach,” she said, all smiles.

“So you like to swim. You’re not a Pisces, are you?”

“No, I’m an Aquarius.”

“
Ahhh
. That means you love water, you’re a good friend, very loyal, and sometimes a bit neurotic.”

“Ah!” She pouted. “I’m not neurotic! What’s your sign?”

“I’m a Pisces.”

She passed her co-worker the latte she was working on. “Oh,” She said, and gently stroked the nozzle of the cappuccino machine with a rag, “what does that mean?”

“I go with the flow, the water. I’m an artist, and perpetually chasing something that eternally eludes me.”

“Wow. So you’re… confused?”

“More indecisive, but I know what I want. I’ve been sort of working on myself.”

“What’s that,” she said, now totally focused on me, “that you want?”

I closed my eyes and made a pained expression.

“To… take a leak.”

“Asshole!” She laughed. “It’s over there.”

I went to the bathroom and glanced back.
Carly
and her co-worker were huddled, whispering and peeking at me. Excellent. Girl talk. As long as it wasn’t about how creepy I am, I was in. I returned for my Americano.

“Well take me to the beach when you get off work. What time?” I asked.

“Umm, ok! I’m off at four.”

“Sweet. I’ll see you at four.”

It was never this easy in a city. I love eighteen year olds; so willing to try new things. Am I a filthy bastard? Well, I’m not old enough to be her dad yet. I just can’t help being attracted to young women; they’re so fun and youthful and adventurous and hot, and nobody will know but me.

Fuck the haters, seriously. Maybe we’ll fall in love. Maybe love isn’t just a chemical reaction biologically programmed to initiate pair bonding. Maybe not.

Good work up there son. Keep it up.

It was only
noon
, so I drove to the beach and parked my mother’s
Toyota
. I got out and scanned around. The three kilometers of beach were completely deserted except for the seagulls, so I sat on the hood and relaxed in the sun. So this is life, not bad, not bad. Then, a mirage, I scouted a lone figure in the distance walking along the beach. It looked like a girl, moved like a girl… it was a girl! And a cute one! What luck. I always believed in playing the odds. It’s better to have two chances than one. I waited for her until she was passing by. I stared at her, locking eye contact, and she smiled… a pretty one.

“You could have brought some friends with you,” I said. “I was getting lonely on this big beach all by myself.”

She laughed. “You don’t need anyone. You can still have fun by yourself.”

“In theory. But hey, it looks like we have each other. Hi, I’m Sebastian.”

“Liz, “she said, moving in to accept my behind-the-back low five.

We chatted for several minutes. She was a bartender, twenty-three, from
Toronto
, and here for the summer. She liked wine and snowboarding. We agreed to meet later that night for a drink. It was really that easy. I didn’t have to insult her, or turn my back, or run any memorized script. I was chipper—her? Alone, horny, lonely, who knows? So it was on. I don’t consider myself incredibly good looking, or very lucky. I just know how to capitalize on opportunity where most men would defeat themselves in their mind before even trying, the poor fools—clipping their own wings.

Four o’clock
rolled in so I picked up
Carly
, and drove her to the beach. She’s a bubbly and enthusiastic type. Her cheeks would glow a youthful pink when she smiled. She was training to be a fitness consultant and worked part time at a gym, when not serving lattes to tourists. It showed in her strong legs and lack of body fat.

I asked her to lie on the grass with me and point out the shapes and creatures in the clouds. No logic allowed. All that frustration and work so I could stare at clouds with pretty girls.
Montreal
was worth it, pickup was worth it, life is worth it.

“That one is an elephant,” she said, pointing up.

“That one is Hitler riding a Unicorn sliding down a rainbow,” I said.

“Oh my god! I see it too!”

After a few minutes of this, I turned my head to gaze romantically into her eyes, leaned in and kissed her. She was terrible at it, gnashing her teeth into mine, licking the roof of my mouth. It was as if she’d never kissed a man. I imagined what my pecker would look like going through that meat grinder. Grimace.

She had to go home, so I drove her and sat low in the seat so her parents wouldn’t call the police. I could see the headline, “Dirty pickup artist seduces eighteen year old barista who can’t kiss.”

Even though I felt like a bastard, I liked this girl. She didn’t seem immature at all, and she was gorgeous… a real knockout, like a heroine in a Hemingway novel. I could see myself staying with this girl. Maybe she would move to
Vancouver
with me.

After our date I drove her home and we agreed to meet again as soon as possible, because I’m
freakin
awesome.

Part 2: Liz vs. Dianna

(The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting)

Liz showed up in her car at
nine pm
. My Sister peered through the window and said, “She’s pretty Sebastian! Where did you meet her?”

“She’s an old friend.”

“You haven’t lived here in ten years. She looks twenty years old.”

“Amazing isn’t it!” I replied, walking out the door, slightly embarrassed and proud at the same time. Is there a word for that? Hey guys, don’t care what anyone thinks of you, except your sisters.

Liz was wearing a tight pair of jeans and a black tank top that showed off her tiny waist and round hips. I hoped I’d get a better look at her that night, if I didn’t mess it up. My game plan was simple: Be cool, funny, aloof, and outcome independent. And drink.

We drove to the bar and went to the patio over-looking the nighttime beach line. I was surprised to find a dozen of her restaurant co-workers there, eating and drinking on the patio. I felt played because I thought we were on a date; now I would have to win over her friends too. I introduced myself but they mostly ignored me. All the guys were fit and good looking preppy types. I knew these sorts.
Penticton
is a hockey town and jock types are everywhere. They were natural, physical alpha males—big, but not too smart. I felt insecure again. Again, I don’t like being the new guy amongst old friends, not when I’m trying to hook up with a chick. I want to be the guy with the social value; I want to bring her into my world so I can work my magic.

Liz was ignoring me and flirting with a goateed line cook. I sat down beside her at the table.

“Hey, introduce me to your friends,” I said.

“Oh Mike, this is Sebastian.”

“Hey man. How’s it
goin
? How do you know her?” He asked.

“We met on the beach today.”

He looked at her, then at me, with his mouth open.

“No shit! You picked her up?”

“He didn’t pick me up!” She said, punching Mike in the arm, letting her hand linger on his bicep.

“Well Mike. A woman can’t be picked up because it’s actually her choice, we’re just friends.” I emphasized, “friends.”

The ducks quacked in the water.

“Well looks like we have a cockfight!” Liz said. “Don’t worry Mike… you’re winning.”

Mike scowled at her, “Hey relax.”

Enough of this. I excused myself to use the washroom and walked into the bar. If she’s going to play us off each other I’d find another date. I’m a professional dick wizard. I approached a few couples in the corner that were playing a game of pool. I played a round with one of the girls while her boyfriend stared at me hard, so I excused myself and moved on. Near the bar there was another pretty girl sitting by herself and a fat middle-aged dude in a track suit was leaning across the counter, almost on top of her. She wasn’t comfortable. I moved closer to hear them.

“You are
soooo
pretty. What’s your name?” he asked, waving his highball in her face.

“
Ummm
, why?”

“So I can buy you a drink, that’s why,
hehe
,” he said, his bulbous gut bouncing as he chuckled.

“
Ummmm
, I like, have a drink,” she said, obviously irritated.

“What’s your name babe?”

“Dianna.”

“Where are you from Dianna?”

“I live here.”

“Cool! So do I,
hehe
,
hehe
.”

My inner White Knight raised his long sword. Dianna was hot. I decided to save her from this creepy douche. I approached her from the front so she could see me coming. We made eye contact and I gave her an over-exaggerated wink before closing in.

“What’s up Babe? Sorry I’m late. You look fantastic. Who’s your friend?” I said, and then turned to look at the obese track star.

“Oh, I don’t know this guy,” she said, playing along.

“Hi. I’m Sebastian, her boyfriend.”

He looked at her, then at me. She smiled at him and nodded her little head. “Oh, sorry man. I didn’t know,” he said, bowing out.

“Hah. No worries champ. Well, have a good night!” I said, and patted him on the shoulder. He walked away in defeat. I sat down at Dianna’s table. “I want one thousand dollars in gold coins.”

“
Haha
. Thanks that was nice. What’s your name?”

“I’m Sebastian.”

“I’m Dianna.”

A busboy cleared our table. He looked Dianna up and down, then retreated.

“Are you waiting for someone? You’re asking for trouble sitting here alone.”

“No. I’m new in town,” she said. “I’m just getting out of the house.”

“You know what? I’m new in town too. I’m actually with some friends and have to go. But how about you and I get together Sunday, and we can be friendless losers together. We can go to the beach and run hand-in-hand skipping through the sand, and drinking cheap wine out of paper bags.”

She laughed, then sat back and regarded me with one closed eye. “Hmmm, yeah… ok! I don’t know about the cheap wine, but sure.”

“What’s your number?” I asked, taking out my phone.

I suppose playing the White Knight has it’s time and place. Most guys think that women are special angels and need to be rescued from every guy that hits on them, or undermines their purity, or whatever. Those are some of the worst cock-blockers. By this point, most of the women I flirted with enjoyed my affectations and White Knights usually end up coming off as needy instead of noble. But that’s because I put two-year’s worth of work in, and they didn’t. Women don’t need our rescuing—we need theirs.

I returned to Liz’s table. She was sitting alone and shot me an icy look. “Where have you been?”

“Well, I played a game of pool with those couples up there, and then I saved a girl from being raped.”

“You were gone a long time.”

“You’re not my dad.”

“What? Of course I’m not your dad. You’re so weird.”

My dick was soft like month old banana. I didn’t like this girl anymore. I still wanted to bang her though, because she looked so, so good. God damn biology, you can detest a woman but still want to give her a good
ol
hate-rail. “You like that woman? You like my dick in your butt!?” Funny thing is, it’s exactly the testy girls like this that enjoy that sort of thing. It’s like they have to screen for masculinity by being a total cow, because only a real jerk would put up with that shit. So the more you put them in their place, the hornier they get.

I looked back at Dianna but she was gone. The track suit guy was leaning over another young girl, souring her with his lonely breath.

“Hey you know what. I’m gonna bounce,” I said. “I have a big day tomorrow.”

“What? You’re going home?”

“Yeah. You’ll be fine. You have Mike.” I knew I was being a dick but didn’t care. It’s incredibly hard to keep up the “I don’t give a shit” shield indefinitely.

She scowled. “Mike left.”

“Give me a call if you want to hang out again,” I said, standing up.

 
I started to walk away and she yelled out, “Sebastian, I’ll give you a ride. Come on.”

I just looked at her for a few seconds until she stamped her foot and said, “Let’s go!”

So I let her give me a ride home. At this point I was sick of being played by women, used like an emotional
jizz
-tissue for their validations. A hot girl can get laid by an attractive guy literally whenever she wants. I could post a Facebook status picture of myself winning the Pulitzer Prize, get thirteen likes, and a pretty girl posts a picture of her duck face gets eighty-seven. Being pretty isn’t a talent.

When we pulled into my Mother’s driveway I said, “I have a tent in the backyard. I prefer to sleep outside.” I actually did prefer sleeping outside, it was quiet and the weather was nice. She frowned at me.

“Why would you sleep in a tent in your mom’s backyard? Is that so you can get laid back there?”

“Well… shit. Look, if you want to. Look I’ll just call you later.”

I got out of the car and looked back at her as she pulled out of the driveway. She waved and sped away in a leaving a torrent of dust. I went down to sleep in my tent. I totally failed that test. I could have been a little cocky and brought her back there, but honestly, she
dissed
me all night, so screw her. Why should I have to do this retarded tap dance all the time? Why do the women have the power? Why do I have to play games just to get laid? Why do I whine so much?

I wondered what Olivia was doing. I thought about sending her a text message. I looked at her number, typed in a few letters and put the phone down. I picked it back up and looked at a few of her pictures. Then I masturbated into a tissue and tried to fall asleep.

Through the transparent tent roof I saw a shooting star. Anyway I thought it was a star, but it didn’t leave a trail. Then I thought it was a
ufo
, but it wasn’t. It was a satellite. I was disappointed. I’d like to see a
ufo
just to give me hope that there’s something superior out there.

The next day I went for a run along the roads flanking the cherry orchards. I’d put on a few pounds from too much drinking and laying around reading books. I’d found it did matter that I had a chubby belly; the girls still liked me, but weren’t quite as adoring as when fit. It was time to step up and get that handled. I also needed to get my emotions in order. I was far too dependent on validation for my happiness. One day I had a girl kissing me on the beach, I’d be giddy like a box of tickled puppies. The next day I’d be rejected and sore.

In the afternoon I called
Carly
, the blond barista, and arranged a date for that evening. I liked this girl. She was gorgeous, smart, and charming. I went to a café and wrote poetry about lust and boredom. While I was sitting slurping my iced-Americano on the sunny patio, a very large, somewhat obese, neck-bearded man sat down beside me. I recognized him from high school.

“Hey bro. I remember you, it’s Wayne
Koywan
right?” I asked.

“Yeah. I remember you too. What’s your name?”

“Sebastian.”

“Yep. Do you still live in
Penticton
?”

“No I’m just here to visit my family. Do you?”

“Me, no. I’m just doing a show in town tonight.”

“Oh yeah, I heard you’re a slam poet right?” I asked.

“Yep,” He said, watching a young couple pass by, holding hands.

“Cool. What else do you do?”

“It’s all I do.”

I looked down at my own poetry, then back at him.

“No shit. So you tour and play shows?”

“Yep, and I sell books.”

“That’s… outstanding.”

Wayne
was famous. He toured performing his slam poetry at festivals, opening for rock stars and international events. He even performed on
tv
at the beginning of the
Vancouver
Olympic ceremonies. His rhymes were heartfelt and funny. I let him look at some of my poetry.

“It’s good. You should get on the
mic
and read it tonight,” he said.

“What? No way dude. It’s not that good.”

“No, it is. You’ll never learn until you try,” he said.

He told me he was writing a book about how he was bullied as a child, which was inspiring. I’d thought about being a professional writer. I told him that I used to write for magazines.

“Why did you stop?” he asked.

I told him I didn’t know, but the truth was, I was scared. It was hard work and I didn’t think I was good enough. Though lately I’d been brainstorming ways to make money by writing, because I was afraid of being a wage slave, working a job I hated, and fading into oblivion. The conversation eventually went to women, always to women. I asked him how he managed to meet them.

“I drink,” he said.

“Oh,” I said, regarding his answer. “You don’t need alcohol for confidence,” I told him, preparing for a lecture on game theory.

“I drink so I can reject them,” he said flatly.

“Oh… wow,” I laughed. “So you live like a rock star? Chicks all over the place. Groupies, and all that?”

I’d always fantasized about being famous, or powerful.
Wayne
was the most famous guy I knew. Maybe he had some insight I could adapt into my game.

“Nah,” he said. “I used to have a port in every harbor. Now I just prefer one girl. but I travel all the time.”

He looked at an old man crossing the street and half smiled. “Love man—love is what you need. Love will fuel your art, not that other stuff. That’s an illusion.”

“Word.”

He had to leave for his show. I thought about what he’d said about love. The
puas
’ don’t believe in it. They say it’s just a biological function. That made sense, but then, what was art? A biological function to… make stuff? To create bigger buildings with superior form? To make things for humans to look at so that we don’t get depressed and shoot ourselves full of cocaine and die in our work vans? Was what I was doing, learning how to pick up girls, art? What’s the point of doing all this if the only status I could achieve would be fathering illegitimate children? I needed to work this out. I wondered what it would be like to be a respected artist, being paid to do what you would do for free, having girls throw themselves at you, and magazines wanting to interview you.