A Thousand Tiny Failures : Memoirs of a Pickup Artist (16 page)

Rickard Yang (Interesting)

I would take a month to focus on other things, like getting a life. I would still go out and approach women, but I couldn’t infect some poor girl with warts of despair. I needed to find a job and a place to live. I wasn’t a kid anymore; I needed a calling, a purpose. Otherwise I would be another random man speeding towards obscurity and regret. I used to write for money so I decided to keep dabbling in that. I also worked as an extra in the movie industry, which was a great way to meet girls, but the work was random, the pay sucked, and sitting around eating craft services made me fat. One of my friends offered to hook me up with a restaurant job, bussing tables. I was hesitant at first. I felt too old to be bussing tables. I could go back to installing stereo systems, but it bored me. I found no satisfaction in that job. At least in the restaurant industry I could meet girls. I wouldn’t need to crawl through attics or sweat it out at construction sites full of angry men.

I ended up getting hired as a busboy at a local brew pub. The job was easy enough for the mentally challenged, but you needed to be fast and available, clearing tables so that new customers could sit down to drop their money on fatty foods. There were some hot girls, but I wasn’t able to attract any of the ones I wanted. I was a lowly busboy, the town bitch. The managers were all underpaid alcoholics and the cooks hated themselves. Most of the servers were alright to hang out with after work, but on the job they were demanding and arrogant. Still, I liked it better than other jobs I’d done. The pay sucked but it was enough to cover rent and beer.

I’d been posting lots on forums, so my fan base was growing. It was a fun hobby, but by this point I was beginning to see pickup as nothing more than confidence, Right Action, and luck. My interest was waning. Most of the forums members were nerds. They preferred to fight and troll and contradict each other. So much energy spent on vagina, so little on spiritual development. Too much discussing and analyzing tactics instead of going out. The only thing a newbie needs to do is practice until they master the fundamentals: body language, fashion, grooming, vocal-tonality, verbal-improvisation, eye-contact, sexual-escalation and ego.

I suppose that’s a long list, but if you practice it will come together through experience-based epiphanies. I made some great friends from the lairs, but at this point forums were a waste of energy. I started my own blog, because I’m a raging narcissist with delusions of grandeur.

I sent an email to a
Vancouver
based dating-coaching company. I was good enough to teach. I didn’t feel like a guru, or some master
pua
, I just wanted a try anything to escape the kitchen. A writer friend once said to me, “My dad told me, son, you can work with your hands, your mouth, or your brain. You know which is best.”

Soon after I was contacted by a guy named Rickard Yang. He owned a company called Dating Done Right, and was hiring junior coaches. Was I really going to teach pickup? What would I tell my mother? Did this mean I’d have to wear a suit and hang out in swanky clubs? I’d done alright, but I’d never dated a stripper or supermodel (like they imply you’re supposed to). I thought Rickard would transform me into a coach.

I had no idea.

We met for coffee. A respectably dressed Chinese guy in his early thirties, he was calm and well spoken. I couldn’t help self-hypnotizing on his bamboo nose-hair, coke-digger fingernails, and cragged, arid lips—his game must be so tight it doesn’t matter, I thought. A true master. He inquired whether I utilized pickup routines or natural game. “I usually just wing it,” I told him. “I’m into being present, and that’s difficult when you’re focused on future outcomes.”

“Hmmm,” he said, stroking his chin fuzz, “interesting.”

I was to join the junior coaches for lunch the following afternoon. “It would be great to meet other guys at or beyond my level,” I rejoiced, shaking his hand. Maybe this was the
Punani
Jedi counsel? I left with a renewed sense of purpose and self-esteem. If you ask the universe for a solution, it delivers. Oprah and all those dead smart people were right.

The next afternoon, we congregated at Starbucks where Rickard introduced me to the junior coaches. I liked all of them; they seemed cool; not like the lair trolls. These guys put in the work, or were already stable. Rickard went over his coaching method, which was basically a copy of The Mystery Method minus the memorized routines. Rickard claimed to teach natural game. By this point, all pickup material seemed the same. It really didn’t matter what a student read if he didn’t apply it. At the end of the class he pulled me aside.

“Sebastian. I have a client I’d like you to work with.”

“Really? Are you sure?”

“Yes. I’ll try you out.”

“Rickard, I’m just curious, what’s the pay?”

“Well, a boot camp is twenty-five hundred dollars, so you can work that off at twenty-five an hour while you’re training.”

I agreed. It sounded like a fine deal; he would teach me how to coach and in the end I’d get a job. But he’d never even seen me teach, or hit on girls. I would never let someone coach my students if I hadn’t personally trained them. I figured, or deluded myself, that he was a guru: an expert judge of character. But my
spidey
sense whispered: Or maybe he doesn’t give a shit about his clients and just wants to squeeze a quick buck out of them.

Shut up Spiderman!

I caught the bus to the new job… I had tables to clear.

The
Pua
(Sometimes winners quit)

“See that blond one over there, eating sushi in the food court?” I said, pointing.

“Yeah, oh man, okay,” a not-so handsome twenty-year-old said. “What opener should I use?”

“Search the environment, use improvisational creativity. What’s the most natural thing to talk about in a food court?”

“
Ummmmm
, food?”

“Totally bro,” I said. “Ask her how much she likes her food, from one to ten, and then make fun of her answer. If she says, ‘ten,’ call her a high maintenance princess, if she says, ‘three,’ call her a manic depressive with daddy issues. Go with the path of least resistance. Just remember, stick to emotional topics, not logical ones. If she hooks, she’s friendly and receptive, tell her you have a few minutes to spare and sit down. If she’s into it, get the number. And remember to make
kino
, shake her hand at least.”

“What should I talk about?” he asked, fidgeting with his Blackberry.

“Dude,” I said, “put that down and look at me.”

He put it down.

“You paid too much money to waste your time pissing around. Don’t worry about it, ok? Stay in the moment. Just stay in set for two minutes and you’ll do fine. Two minutes! Pretend if you stay in for two minutes, you’ll win a million bucks. Fundamentals, ok!? Go, go, go! Two minutes!”

I gave him a little shove and off he went. He was talking to her, his hands were shaking, he was sweating:
Normal
newbie behavior. I was there once. She was smiling and flicking her fingers through her hair. I gave myself a little fist pump. He came back after five minutes with her number in hand.

 
“Good job dude,” I told him.

He was happy. We debriefed about the day’s work. After approaching thirteen girls he managed to collect three phone numbers and two
Facebooks
. Better than I did on my first day.

“Awesome Sebastian. Thanks man. I’m really happy you’re helping me. You’re an awesome coach!” he said with a spreading grin.

“Hey, it’s all you,” I assured him. And we went our separate ways. I left the mall and headed a few blocks down to
Gastown
, and my other work. The hostess smiled. I walked past the bartender and gave him a wave. I moved past the kitchen line and the food runner said, “Hi Sebastian, it’s gonna be fucking busy tonight. There’s like a hundred and twenty reservations.”

“Cool.”

I went into the locker room, yanked off my street clothes, mashed into my uniform and apron, punched the clock and journeyed through the dining area for my seven hours of nightly duty. Seven hours. Better than eight, I thought. Positive thinking kept prisoners alive in
Auschwitz
too.

“Sebastian!” a server yelled, using his sleeve to wipe bacon sweat from his face. “Where have you been? I need you to step it up…I’m getting run over.”

“I’m on it,” I said, rushing to his section.

As I was clearing the table another server approached me.

“Sebastian, I haven’t seen you in a while. I need all the water refilled in section A.”

“Yeah sure. I’m on it. Two minutes.”

The server scowled, fixed her apron and posture, faked a smile, and moved off. After I cleared both the sections I walked over to flirt with the hostess.

“So, do you come here often?”

“
Haha
. Shut up Sebastian.”

“You shut up. I hate you.”

“No you don’t. You love me.”

“You’re vain.”

Patelli
, the manager of annoyance, yelled from across the bar, “Sebastian!”

I stopped flirting and looked at him. “Yes, boss?”

“Can you pick that up?” He pointed at a dish rag two feet from his polished shoes. The hostess remained silent, but watchful. Judgment Day. Cock fight of the slave-lord.

I paused for a second. Was he kidding? He couldn’t pick it up himself? This guy was just power tripping… cock-blocking. “Sure thing boss,” I said, languidly walking over one step at a time. I kept our eyes locked as I bent down to pick up the linen, then slowly raised myself, and with a toss to the left, dropped it in the bin. “Anything else, boss?”

“Yeah, can you go check your section,” he said without looking at me.

Some rulers utilize respect, strategy and nobility; others… fear and ridicule. They were never meant to lead, yet here they are, born into bureaucracy like reincarnated hyenas.

“No problem,” I said, and went to my section.

What a douche. Why was I here? Who are these people? High school dropouts and wanna be actors. Nice people most of them, but how did this happen to us? Even
Pol
Pot was a moon-eyed kid once.

That evening I went to
Patelli
. “Hey
Patelli
, I was wondering. I’ve been working here for six months now. I’m thinking, what does a guy need to become a server? I mean, I’m in my thirties. I’m a smart guy, loyal, funny, and a hard worker. I’d like a bigger challenge.”

“Oh.” He took a long sip of his
frappuchino
. “You’ll never be promoted here.”

My jaw dropped.

“What!? Why not?”

“We don’t promote from within. You’d be better off going to
Dennys
, or a fast food restaurant where they’re uh, willing to train young guys.”

F.U.C.K U…

“I’m not that young. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to serve beer and burgers,” I said, scratching my face in frustration.

“Look. It’s just not worth it for us. Why train when we can hire someone that’s already trained?”

“I’m a fast learner. I used to be a music journalist,” I told him.

I wanted to tell him that every weekend I was teaching men how to overcome social-anxiety. We’d go to malls, bookstores, clubs, and bars—pushing them to approach random women—and it worked. I thought I might be a good server, but this job was a joke. I wasn’t sure I could be a full-time dating coach yet. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be a dating coach—it’s such a weird job. How do you tell people you teach pickup for a living? They’d brand me a warlock and sharpen sticks at both ends. Rickard wasn’t paying me and I needed money. I was still on his, “training program.”
Patelli
wasn’t having it. I’d scorned him one time too many. He held tight his reins of power.

I did my time, collected my twenty-five dollars in tips and left for home, physically, mentally and emotionally exhausted. I checked my messages. There was a text from Rickard Yang asking me to meet potential students at The Cellar. I showered, ate dinner, played battlefield two, read Charles
Bukowski
, meditated, got into my skinny jeans and V-neck, caught the bus and went to the bar. He was standing in the back talking to the group.

“This is Sebastian, my newest coach,” he said, patting my shoulder. “He knows a lot about game. Talk to him if you want any help.”

A few guys came to ask me questions. I leaned back like a killer whale amongst dolphins while orating them on approaching, escalation, limiting beliefs, and all that stuff I thought I understood. Ego, that sneaky devil, whispering little stories of grandeur.

You’re the shit bro…

I finally saw Rickard chat up a few women, they were polite. It’s not like he didn’t have game. I saw him make-out with a
hottie
once—in less than thirty seconds (though she politely refused his offer to leave with him before escaping his chaffy clutches).

Getting a fast make-out isn’t hard if you’re aggressive. You can basically kiss-rape a girl before her logic kicks in. Most dating coaches claim to be experts with women, though I’ve never met one that could be considered better than any other. You can be as attractive as you are, but never more so than you’re least attractive and best option. There’s no magic involved: the woman has the final say. The only thing a seducer can truly manipulate is emotion and perception, just like any good sales, politician, or con-man. Pickup works because the woman decides she wants to be picked up, not because your magic
pua
lines brainwashed her. If you’re not solid within yourself, more so than her, she’ll bounce. We teach men how to fake confidence until their positive experiences allow them to believe their own lies. So here’s the question…what is personality? What’s taste? What’s a belief system worth if you can toss it all away like a used condom and begin anew? You think you know yourself, but all you know is that you don’t know anything; especially not yourself. Now fly my monkeys, and bring me Dorothy!

I’d been working for him for two months now. I wouldn’t call it working, because he wasn’t paying me. He kept promising he would, once I worked off the money he figured I owed him, which was about two thousand dollars. He never actually taught me anything my own experiences hadn’t already.

As I was lecturing the students I spotted a super cute little blond. There was a Santa hat on the coat rack. I walked over, pushing through partiers, grabbed the hat and dropped it on her head.

“There you go. Now you look cool,” I said.

“Oh, why thank you sir! I always wanted to look cool,” she replied with a smile, completely receptive.

“Ok, give it back,” I said, and took it away.

“
Aww
! Hey! You
meanie
!”

“Here,” I said, holding my hand over her head, “you can wear the invisible hat. Now we both have one, except mine is better, because I’m
awesomer
.”

Sometimes talking to girls like you’re six years old works.

Her name was Summer, a twenty-two year old nursing student from
Halifax
. We were getting on well when another pretty one walked up, grabbed her hand and pulled. I reached out for my treasure and latched on to her forearm. “Hey!” I said. “Wait your turn, you love pirate!” I tried a karate chop, but she wouldn’t relent. Before Summer was dragged away, we vowed to rendezvous later. I went back to the students.

“
Woa
she’s hot,” one of them said.

“Yeah. I’ll try again later. Her friend is playing mother hen.”

I carried on with my game lessons.

“You can’t be worried about rejection. I mean, look at me and look at that guy,” I said, pointing to a tall, thick haired, toned young guy. “If I relied on my looks, I’d never pick up a girl. Unless you demonstrate superior game, the good looking guys will win. Why should a ten go with me over him?”

“Because you have game?” one guy said.

“Sure. Sometimes I do. But really, the only way for a guy that looks like me to get a beautiful girl, say a ten, is to play the numbers game. Status helps, but I’m not a promoter, DJ, or rock star. So to get a beautiful girl I have to hit on one hundred, where as that guy probably has to hit on thirty. But somewhere, there’s a girl that prefers this, to that.”

“That’s depressing man,” another guy said.

“No. That’s reality. If you don’t want to approach hundreds of women, just start a band. It doesn’t even matter if you suck. They just care that you’re on stage.”

“That’s pretty negative.”

“You’re not my mom.”

“What?” he said, scratching his head.

I saw Summer flirting with a young guy near the bar. He had his phone in his hand and was getting her number.

“See that guy?” I said to the students.

“Yeah,” they said, nodding.

“I’m giving him five minutes to do something, and then I’m stealing his girl.”

They all smiled.

“Really?” one asked.

“You bet.”

I felt like Babe Ruth, pointing outside the stadium,
knockin
it out for the crowd.

Five minutes passed and the guy was still chatting. Good for him, I thought. Now it’s my turn. I walked straight towards them, put up my hands out in a grand hugging gesture and said, “Summer! Oh my God! It’s been
sooooo
long!”

“
Ohhh
…
heeey
!” she replied. We hugged. The other guy sort of looked at us funny, not sure what to make of me.

“Hi bro. How’s it
goin
?” I said, giving him a handshake. “Have a good night.” I dismissed him.

And then he said, “Ok, thanks,” and sauntered off, defeated by superior game.

You get what you want. He wanted a phone number, I wanted her.

That was so awesome.

We were still hugging. “I’m not letting your friend drag you away this time. You tell her I’m a good guy, ok?”

“Oh she knows you’re a good guy. I told her you were.”

I caught that last bit: I told her you were. That meant they were talking about me. That meant I could get this girl. I looked at her lips, then at her eyes, then at her lips. She licked them, preparing. I leaned in slowly and she let out a little sigh and opened her mouth, but I didn’t kiss her—I just lingered, a millimeter away to keep the tension. The students were huddled at the bar, watching. I was in The Matrix.

“I think you love me,” I said. “I’m marrying you.” I leaned down, placed one hand beneath her legs, one behind her back and swooped her up. She squealed and wrapped her arms around my neck. I carried her up a few stairs singing, “Here comes the bride!” and dropped her onto a couch. I sat down, pulled her onto my lap, grabbed her face—real dominant like—and stared into her eyes for about five seconds, until she submitted… and then we kissed. It was epic.