A Thousand Tiny Failures : Memoirs of a Pickup Artist (5 page)

Rooftop Combat

 
(Mario is a Cock-block,
Wario
is misunderstood, the Princess is overrated)

The majority of the Anglos (foreigners,
Farang
) worked in call centers… so I found work in a call center. It was bullshit slavery, as all jobs seem to be…but at least I could practice my verbal game by selling crap to strangers. And lots of young girls, on break from university, worked there. After the day was over I would ride my bike home, power nap, watch pickup
dvd’s
and then go out. I was on day twenty-seven straight of going out and still hadn’t picked up a girl.

Eric had become my de-facto wingman. He was more into getting fucked up that picking up girls, but he was smart and full of conspiracy theories about corporate agendas, which was entertaining.

“They control the food, the banks, the media,” he told me, while sucking back a cup of Asian
msg
-noodles.

It was all interesting but I didn’t see how this knowledge would help me get laid. I’d already been through my punk rock-angst stage, but I humored him. He also taught me how to find free vegetables in dumpsters, how to sneak into movies via back doors, and how to scam booze at the bar by stealing pitchers when people weren’t looking. This all helped, since I was broke. It’s amazing how easy it is to get by on nothing in
Canada
.

Montreal
has flat roofs and if it’s warm, there’s always a rooftop party. One humid night he took me to one. I patrolled around scouting chicks, trying my best to be charming and doing alright. Most of the pretty girls found me amusing but weren’t feeling the love. My hair was shaved short and I felt scary looking. Eric called me, “Sebastian the Skinhead.” I knew the girls would feel whatever I felt and I didn’t feel good. I had far too much trepidation. Nothing a half a dozen beer couldn’t fix. I finally got a solid buzz on and met a cute girl that was willing to listen to my odd questions like, “Who would win in a fight, two hundred midgets with pitchforks and body armor, or one T-Rex?”

“Oh, definitely the T-Rex, he would stomp them.”

“Au contraire!” I replied. “Midgets though small, are very strong. They could run up his tail and gouge the Rex’s eyes out.”

“No. The T-Rex is huge. It would win.”

“You’re not my dad.”

“What?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a commotion. I looked over and Eric was arguing with some tall lanky
scenester
guy. This dude was pushing his finger into Eric’s chest and spitting into his face, “Where’s my money, you shit!?”

“I don’t have it.”

“Give it to me, you shit.”

“Dude, I said I’m broke!”

I’ve got issues with bullies. Actually, I was craving combat. Nearly a month of hitting on girls and not getting laid, my over-abundance of testosterone boiled my blood. I finished my beer and marched over, mentally preparing for battle. I didn’t know yet that Eric was a brutal drug fiend and this guy was his junkie wingman. I approached the tall guy.

“Hey, I think you should lay off,“ I said.

He looked at me, then at Eric, then at me, took a drag from his cigarette, and walked away.

Yeah, you’re a tough guy.

So I went back to talking with girls. I was doing pretty well too. Most of them were nice to me now, some very cute ones too. I asked one for her number and I got it. I was getting really proficient at collecting phone numbers and Facebook addresses, even though almost all of them were fakes, or they didn’t answer or text back. As I was punching one into my phone, I noticed Eric and the lanky dude near the end of the rooftop, within a cloud of dust from their scuffling. Lanky guy had Eric in a headlock and was getting ready to feed him shots with his fists.

“Fuck this guy,” I said to a girl, shoving the phone into my pocket.

Sebastian of old would have watched from a distance, but Sebastian the
pua
warrior started a slow, semi-drunken jog, fully committed to kicking this guy’s ass.

Full intent, full belief. Go bro. Everyone’s watching.

From about twenty feet away I yelled, “Hey fucker!”

He released Eric’s head and looked up in time to take my body slam. His knees were at the same height as a low ledge, so he flew head over heels, like a spinning rag doll, off the roof only four feet down, but onto his head. His face slid across the gravel and he laid there motionless until the dust settled.

Silence.

A gasp, and then another.

Someone lit a joint.

A few people laughed and,
omg’d
.

I thought I’d killed him.

So that was my fate… I’d be a prison bitch. My sphincter would be destroyed and I’d trade cigarettes for favor and ferry parcels between gangs. I’d have to join the Arians for protection. Do they need writers in jail?

And then gopher like, he popped up, stabilized, and swept the dirt from his face with his skinny arms.

“
Heeeey
maan
, that wasn’t cool!” he said.

Then he pulled a package of smokes from his shorts, removed a green lighter from the pack, lit one, climbed the ladder and walked back to the party.

The music started up and they all went back to the same.

These people are… something is wrong with them.

I didn’t know yet, but many of Eric’s friends were junkies-in-training. They were just so clean and young. But like experienced child soldiers, you could see it in their bovine drug eyes.

I’d never smashed someone before, and I felt guilty. Is this what warriors feel like after they’ve slaughtered their enemies? Adrenaline, pride, and shame?

You’re very enigmatic.

“Hey bro, I’m going home,” I said to Eric.

“Sure man.
Whatevs
,” he said, and then he walked over and hugged the lanky guy.

What the hell?

I felt sad like I’d never comprehend the human condition. I climbed down the ladder and left the party without saying goodbye. Very childish of me, I know.

As I pedaled my way home past the bagel shops, cute little parks and cafés and bars, I looked back towards the roof-party, and laughed.

Misandry
(Epic fails)

I stood on the pavement, outside the shitty club, and every critical rejection hit me, chopped a piece out, and knocked me down. But this was a good experience—the worst of it. Every fighter needs to have his ass kicked a few times to toughen up.

“Get away from us, hairy chest man!” The drunk nineteen year old girl yelled.

“Yeah!” Hairy chest man!” Her friend frothed.

“Button your shirt, hairy chest man! You’re ugly!” The third chimed in.

And all this hate, simply because I made a joke about Jessica Alba having sex with dolphins. It was an article I’d read that day in the paper. I merely suggested that animals might make better lovers than men under certain circumstances, and perhaps she had enjoyed it. It wasn’t meant as a provocation, but some bitches be
lookin
for a fight. Sometimes they just freak out because they’re either a. stupid, b. drunk, c. crazy, or any combination thereof. Throw in the occasional lesbian, feminist studies major, or
misandrist
man hater—it’s dangerous out there.

“Go away, why are you still here? Button your shirt.”

“He doesn’t get it. I don’t think he’s listening.”

“Why does he just stand there? Go away.”

“He’s stupid. Why doesn’t he leave?”

“Maybe he’s retarded.”

“He’s dumb.”

“Get away from us. We don’t like you.”

“Go away… please!”

I stood there and stared at them, smiling politely, occasionally shifting my weight from the right to left foot, arms crossed behind my back to expose my vulnerable heart. Stab away you
cunts
! (Btw, I rarely say the word, ‘
cunt
,” but on occasion I think it. People think all kinds of things we don’t plan on saying. So don’t be all
cunty
about it).

Eventually they sighed and walked off into the bar asking each other what had just happened, and what’s wrong with him? I looked down at my chest. I considered buttoning the top button… and decided against it. It wasn’t so bad. At least they didn’t call me Hairy Tit-Man.

I walked outside the bar into a French pizzeria and found a short girl wearing a tight, sky-blue dress. I told her that she reminded me of a Smurf, so she puffed her chest and squealed, “You better up
yo
game buddy! You better up
yo
game!”

Her friends had to hold her back while she tried to claw at me, all beastly.

“I just thought she was cute! Smurfs are cute!”

“Then why didn’t you say that, oh my
gawd
? It was so rude!” They pulled her away and made their escape.

Eric and I laughed, and ate our pizza.

I went into a different bar and ordered a shot of whiskey and a beer. Ten minutes later I regained my stamina, walked past the dance floor to the high tables and tried to grab a girl from a group of four tall, handsome types. I pushed myself onto her, and she seemed into it. “You should come for a walk. Adventure time,” I said. “Do it. Do it. Do it.”

“Well, I, umm…”

“Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it.”

“
Hee
hee
!”

“Do it. Do it. Do it.”

“I can’t, my friends are here,” she said, motioning at the four men standing beside us at the counter, clutching their beers. As my charms faltered, one of the baboons hip checked me. I landed four feet to the right, and deflected off a table, sending an empty beer mug onto the floor, shattering it. I stood there as they formed a protective shell around her, from which to mock me.

Believe, be present, remain positive, take action, ignore consequence, learn from experience.

I walked straight back, tapped her on the shoulder and when she looked, I grabbed her hand and pulled. Submission and doe-eyes.

Wow, she liked it. You… are
rad
.

Full intent, full belief. It was a tactic I’d read about, like grabbing a kitten by the scruff, they go limp. Caveman style domination… I’m awesome, a beast lord.

“Look,” I said, holding her waist as she pressed her ear against my cheek, “despite your incredibly rude friends, I’m still willing to take you out next week. So, what’s your number?”

There was no upwards inflection in my voice. I just said, “What’s your number,” like a hypnotic command. Balls of diamond. It was they, (her man-friends) who were keeping us apart. Delusional confidence, almost verging on the absurd. Lies become reality, an
Airbender
of the highest order.

The bravado paid off and she gave it to me, one hand on my neck as she typed it in. The
orchish
men relented. Maybe they respected my persistence in the face of adversity. I released her, strolled out of the bar and rode my bike in a princely state, inhaling the crisp night air. I had to work in the morning, but there were still two parties left. I could stay out late tonight, I figured.

Take tomorrow off, stay home for a change. You deserve a rest. Maybe you could invite her to that party tomorrow, maybe you could continue your aggressive style, maybe I could finally get laid.

 
It was genius, a full frontal assault. I stopped and checked her number.

What was that? A one or a two? A four or an eight?

 
Fuck.

Laaaaaame
.

Whatever dude. People suck.

I looked up at
Mount Royal
, proudly silhouetted by the moonlight. It must have seen some shit, I thought.

I’d been practicing for ninety-three days.

Olivia (The Age of Aquarius)

I saw her seated, like a sunflower in gravel, with boys at every angle trying their best chat her up. It was another
Montreal
rooftop party inhabited by hipster kids; comparing tattoos, throwing up, looking cool for the girls. She was wearing a trashy looking leopard skin skirt, but it looked purposely trashy, like a funny fake tattoo. Her hair was dyed red and she had sleepy, stoner eyes—just like me. Or maybe she was stoned. I don’t doubt it. Her mouth had a perfect little heart shape at the top and her skin was pale and lightly freckled.

I had a boner.

Ok man, I’ll stay up late, for you. The things I do for you.

I devised my strategy, Sun Tzu would be proud: Approach from above and dominate. Since they were sitting, my natural elevation would support my appearance as a superior alpha man. Yeah, that’s what I told myself. Whatever works. What to say? Associate… roof top, sitting… avoid cliché.

“You guys are going to have dirty butts. We’re not goddamn apes. Be proud,” I said.

They all blinked.

“They blew it up! The idiots!”

They all blinked again, but she laughed. That means she saw the original Planet of the Apes. That means she’s a nerd, (or her dad was) and all my movie jokes will work.

The boys scowled at me, but she smiled and flexed her toes. When chicks are excited they flex their toes. It’s a physical expression of sexual tension. She thinks I’m hot. I am hot.

“Ok,” I said, “I’ll sit with you guys for a minute. Be interesting…
aaaaand
go!” I pointed at her.

She was staring at me, and only me, with doe eyes caught in the headlamp, so I sat down and played with her rings, her necklace, her hair. She was only eighteen and had just moved to the city. This is why the boys hovered and drooled—she was ripe, fresh and so clean. But they weren’t making any real moves. They were little boys and cowards. I ignored them. They’re gnats impeding my noble mission of bringing more love into this expiring world.

“Hey let’s go downstairs,” I said, and started walking without looking back.

“Ok.”

And down we went. I felt their eyes piercing my back like little poisoned daggers. I heard one of them whisper, “Douche bag.”

Some primal instinct was at work here, I was in the zone, dudes. I walked her around the party a few times, holding hands like an old couple. We ate salt and vinegar potato chips, and I fed her some whiskey out of my pocket flask. She laughed at all my dumb jokes, especially the one about barbequing a baby Orca. I told her my age but she didn’t seem to care. I didn’t either. I’d been going out every night that month and she was the first pretty girl to give me a shot in a week. She was a teenager, fresh out of high school. Fuck what anybody thinks. We’ll all be dead soon enough, so nothing really matters, I thought. Life is an absurdity, a video game. Social conventions are illusory in our pampered, feminized, rich, western environment.

I can fuck eighteen year olds if I want to. Nobody will judge you in
Montreal
.

To justify, you must create your own society in your head. This is how cults are formed. A student asked me once why I didn’t form a society and teach them all to think like me. We could all go to clubs together and I’d be the leader. I could probably do that. It would be like starting a new band, or writing a short story. But why would I want to lead a clan of weak, inexperienced men? There would be civil war. They’d overthrow me and drink my blood. Best not to think of such evil things, brain porn.

It’s not a bad idea.

“You should see my place. I don’t live far away,” I pointed west.

She looked at me for a second, smiled and said, “Ok.”

Why wasn’t it always this easy?

We walked together past the fountain in Park La Fontaine, up
St. Laurent
, laughing and stopping to kiss every few blocks. She was shy about it at first but allowed me. Her friend, a short kid in an army jacket, caught up to us on the corner. He was out of breath. “Olivia, where are you going with
him
?”

“
Ummm
, hi Nick…This is Sebastian.”

“Hey man,” I said.

“What am I supposed to do then?” He said, wiping sweat from his brow.

She squeezed my hand, then squinted and prepared herself.

“Umm, I don’t know, like, go make friends maybe?”

And that was that. The kid looked at her, then at me, then at her.

 
“Well, I’ll see ya later then,” he said, and walked away pouting the way I have a hundred times while some good looking guy got the girl…and now I was that guy.

I was the hot guy, the winner.
Woot
woot
! My ego made a toast to himself. Then he did a line, and ate some Orca steak. I don’t have an inner goddess, I have an inner mythology.

“Is that guy in love with you?” I asked.

“He’s just my friend.”

“Ok. I think he’s in love.”

“
Haha
. Maybe. Yeah, I think so. He’s just my friend though.”

“Poor bastard.”

“Hey. Yeah,
haha
. He’s nice!”

“I know. They always are.”

“You’re funny.”

“
Shhh
, you had me at hello.”

The grand tour ended in my bedroom, naturally. She accepted my fondling until I went for her pussy. I said in a Humphrey Bogart voice, “A real classy dame, see.” I tried once more, with a similar result.

So I raped her, cut her into tiny pieces, glued them to a toy race-car, drove it into a Starbucks and blew it up.

Just kidding.

“You’re Mr. Cuddly,” she said, nuzzling her butt into my crotch.

“Yeah, I’m very cuddly. I like spooning, and back scratching, and arm scratching. Do you like it, or is it to feminine for you?”

“Oh no,
naaah
. I’m totally down with the cuddles. I love cuddles.”

“Sweet, because I’m awesome at it. You’re my cuddle slut.”

“
Ahh
! Hmmm, I suppose so.”

“My dirty cuddle whore…”

“…”

“…”

“Hey. That’s enough.”

“Ok.”

I must have hit on hundreds of girls since I arrived in
Montreal
. I would love to believe she saw the, umm, special, in me…but I just got lucky. No sex though. After she fell asleep, I snuck into the bathroom and politely rubbed one out.

The third date night, I had Olivia in my room and Eric was in the kitchen eavesdropping. She was telling me about a street rave happening that night.

“There’s gonna be lots of
pillzzz
people,” she said.

“I’ve never done that stuff, I’m scared.”

Eric popped his head through the door. “Do you want some E? Give me ten bucks.”

“How did you do that?” I asked. “Do you have like, super hearing?”

“Yeah, drug sense. Let’s get high. You have to try it at least once.”

I looked at Olivia, she smiled. I’d never tried
mdma
before, and I wanted to experience the love drug, especially with a hot girl.

“Sure man,” I said and handed him the money.

Eric returned ten minutes later with three white lines on a
cd
case. “Wow that was fast,” I said. Then he bent over the case and with a long snort, inhaled one of the lines. He held the case for Olivia and she took one, and I took the other. At first it just burned my throat and tasted like Tylenol. “How long will this take?” I asked.

“Oh, not long bro. Why don’t you play some guitar?”

I sat on the floor of my bedroom and played the guitar while Olivia and Eric sat on my bed and talked. After a few minutes I felt exceptionally giddy. The music was coming easy. I came up with a floating ditty. I missed playing music.

“Maybe I’ll start another band. I used to be pretty good.” I turned up the volume and played a sweet riff.

“You’re really good Sebastian!” Olivia said.

“Yeah bro, keep playing you’re great,” Eric agreed.

“Yes sirs,” I said. “I think I feel it now. I’m Kurt Cobain. Look at me now bitches. I think this stuff is working. Oh yeah, It’s good now.”

It was definitely working. I turned around and Eric was kissing Olivia, quite passionately. I should have been jealous but all I felt was warmth, and love. Was this what I’ve been looking for? It was never about the sex. I could care less about sex.

“I feel it!” I exclaimed. “It’s like someone broke the faucet to my endorphins. Oh man.”

“
Sebasssttiiiaaannn
come here!” Olivia begged, reaching for me with her free hand.

I climbed onto the bed and lay down with Olivia in-between us. I would kiss her, then he would kiss her, and it was fun. The window was open and the breeze was calming. I felt like a scene from
Casablanca
. I was hyper sensitive to a light sweat on my brow. It felt like jungle mist. I closed my eyes as Olivia massaged my neck and my skin pulsed, or vibrated, to the off rhythm of the street noise below. I could hear people laughing at the bus stop, departing on their various adventures. I sensed their emotions, fears and joys. I felt an urge to join them. Life is ok, adventure is good, I thought.

I felt something rough and stubbly on my face, so I opened my eyes to Eric. His tongue was in my mouth. Even though I should have been mortified—I didn’t care, not one bit. It seemed completely natural. I knew it was the drugs, so I pulled away from him. I’d have to deal with that memory later—I was too ripped to think about anything remotely logical. Olivia got on top and straddled us, then pulled off her shirt and bra exposing her amazing breasts. “Boys, boys!” She said.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” I asked Eric.

“She sure is!” He said, playing with them, kneading them.

“Fantastic.”

“Magnificent.”

“Can I slap them?”

“Sebastian!”

“Kidding.”

I looked at the clock. It was almost
midnight
. “Hey, let’s go to this party,” I said.

“
Naw
…,” he replied, nonchalantly. “Let’s stay here.”

Even though I was tripping, I didn’t want my first sexual experience in
Montreal
being a threesome with my strung out roommate. “No, I think we should go. Get up, up,” I said, sliding off the bed and putting on my sweater. Olivia got up as well. Eric looked bummed.

He hugged Olivia and said to her, “He’s just not from the Age of Aquarius. That’s all.”

Nor the
land
of
Herpes
, I thought.

“I want to go to the party. It sounds seriously good. The guy from Wolf Parade is
dj-ing
,” she said.

On the way to the party we ventured through a street festival on St.
Viateur
. I held tightly onto Olivia and she hung on to Eric. The night was warm and wild with love. Of course, we were high as fuck, but it was all around us—in the people—or so I hoped. In the streets, the bars and the late night cafés were people laughing, talking, singing, swearing, preparing for their nightly duties or adventures. As we slid through crowds I could smell fresh bread and perfume, coffee and
shisha
smoke, all the while waves of euphoria ran my spine like a marshmallow hand job.

“I’m alive,” I said.

“That’s it!” Eric exclaimed, swinging up his arms. “Don’t fight it. Let it work. This is
Montreal
, man.”

Olivia nuzzled closer to my neck and I hugged Eric, my best friend, who I didn’t really know, and had just made out with. Drugs weren’t so bad. They’re always terrifying the moment up to your peak, and then you find peace, joy and camaraderie, until you come down. The trick is not to reflect too much on life’s terror and darkness. Hunter S. Thompson has covered this better than I ever will.

“Am I gonna freak out? Where the hell are we anyway? Where’s this party?” I asked. And then I laughed. “No, no, it’s cool you bastards. Take me into the fray.”

“You’re the best.” She cuddled back into my neck.

Warmth, glow, fear, peace.
Mdma
is a hell of a drug.

“You’re the best too baby. I’m glad we met. I’m glad I took you from that party.”

“Me too. For seriously.”

“For what?” I asked. “Is that slang?”

“Yeah. For
srrrrrsly
,” She dragged the word out.

“Ok.”

I could hear the bass beyond rue St. Denis, behind the warehouse and train tracks. We pushed ahead through more crowds of festival goers and then through clean
Montreal
alleys; with all their fauna and graffiti, turning west, towards the bridge, and when we rounded the final bend some ten thousand hipsters appeared like gorillas in the mist, chest beating and jungle masturbation included. They were everywhere, homogenized, drinking tall cans of beer from paper bags, long boards in hand, and sporting painted denims in every color of the rainbow—like abused birds of paradise—they bobbed in unison to the thudding re-mix. I tightened my clutch on Olivia and Eric as they dragged me through the wonder and the terror of the outdoor rave.