A Thousand Tiny Failures : Memoirs of a Pickup Artist (6 page)

“Sebastian are you having fun? You look a little green,” Olivia said.

“Yeah I’m fine. No worries. Just really fucking high. I’m Brett Easton Ellis high.”

My bowels shuddered under the stress of so much chemical induced anxiety, so I broke off the litter to leak behind a tree. I clutched onto that ancient oak like it was the one real entity amongst cardboard aliens. “Thanks friend,” I said, patting its trunk. “I’ll call you
Treebeard
.”

On my way back I found myself marooned in the crowd. A few yards up, a fist pumping punk with Bruce Springsteen hair was
DJing
on top of a van surrounded by hipsters. I cared for a moment until I located a couple of strange, beautiful girls, I thought I might have recognized, once, maybe in another time…so I walked over there, tripping my face off. I stood and stared at the girls, dumbfounded. I opened my mouth but no noise emerged—just my ever widening grin and the bass in the background.

“Hi?” One girl said.

“Hey,” I replied. “Cool party.”

“Yeah totally,” she pretended to agree.

Boom, Boom, Boom…

“
Rad
. Warm night,” I said, staring at her pretty face, hoping she could feel the waves of affection shooting from my chest like a fucked up Care Bear.

“
Ummmmmm
, yah.” She avoided eye contact.

Boom, Boom, Boom…

Fuck. She knows…everything.

“I’m super high right now,” I said, grinning through clenched teeth.

“Yeah, I can tell.”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah. Don’t worry about it,” she said.

But it was too late. She’d gazed into my abyss, into my soul, and it gazed back. Nipple shits. I stared at her some more; she was so pretty. I wondered if I could touch her without seeming creepy. I knew I was stoned but this was what love felt like; a pulsing, a crowd, an outdoor
dj
set—except I don’t like this song, and I’m really itchy, and thirsty, and sweaty.

“You’re pretty. Your hair’s nice?” I asked. It wasn’t a question, it just came out that way.

Come on Sebastian, you can do better. I don’t care if you’re high. I’m bored down here. I’ll do a good job. I promise.

She blinked, checked her phone, then turned away towards the guy from Wolf Parade.

You totally
creeped
her out bro.

Is that all you have to do? Stand on top of a van with a laptop and pump your fist? Then I was suddenly hyper aware of my legs being incredibly heavy, and my skin tingling like I was a cat and wanted to rub myself on a leg, or anything warm. I sent a text to Olivia saying:

“Lost. Scared. Need…girl.”

Where was she? Did she leave me to go off with Eric? He was a very charming guy, an artist. He had a nice beard, like a rock star. Maybe they were fucking doggy-style behind a dumpster somewhere. I imagined it, but I couldn’t make myself jealous, not on these pills. Everything was great no matter what. Then like sex-demons on a chloroform boat, Olivia and Eric appeared before me. They grabbed my wrist and we were off once more into the bubbling night, away from my shame and chemical fear/love.

“I need to go home please,” I told them.

“Ok Sebastian,” Olivia said maternally.

I loved that I felt like loving her. But I hated knowing it was because I was on drugs. What’s that feeling? Oh, guilt. There you are.

Hey dude. You’re gonna regret this.

Regret what?

Everything I let you.

Bastard.

When we returned to the apartment the ecstasy was wearing off, and thankfully I wasn’t feeling sad. I sat my desk and checked my messages. I’d been working hard and had amassed a great many girls that wouldn’t message me back. But now I had Olivia.

I looked down the hallway and Eric was talking to her in his room. I saw the door close behind them.

It’s fine. She’ll come back.

I scanned through a few more profiles, sneaking glances down the hall. The door was still shut. For the first time that night I felt a familiar sensation…jealousy. I hate jealousy. It means you’ve lost something that you’ve claimed possession of: Ownership is a trap.

Finally I’d had enough. I yelled, “Olivia, come!” A minute went by and his door opened. She walked meekly down the hall towards my room. He had his shirt off and appeared to be bargaining, pleading, gesturing with his hands. Olivia shook her head and left him there. She came into my room and got under the covers. I stayed on my laptop and started a poem.

A minute later Eric appeared in my door way. “Olivia,” he said. “Come with me.”

She didn’t look up.

“Olivia, let’s go,” he continued.

“Bro,” I said, “She’s tired. It’s done. Give it up.”

He stood there and scratched his balls.

“Man,” he said. “Like I said, you’re not from the Age of Aquarius.” Then he went back to his room and shut the door.

Within minutes, Olivia was fast asleep, or pretending to be. She looked so cute and I thought about waking her up so I could try her out, but decided to leave it. I shut of the light and tried to fall asleep too, but I was still high. So I stayed up and worked on my poem. I needed to put my mind on something, other than drugs and pussy and drama.

Bukowski
Made Me Do It

I don’t have real angst

Not like war torn rape victims

HIV riddled convenience store beggars

Sex scandal politicians

Unemployed ex-famous actors

Tiny-
dicked
black men

But I have worries

Not like alcoholic test pilots

Balding hairdressers

Broke poker gurus

Angry life coaches

And your perpetually single, single mother

Life is just like that...

Did I really make out with Eric? What the fuck?

Factotum (Phone Sex)

I arrived late to work at
9:15 am
. My supervisor was sitting in the middle of the call center, in a booth overlooking the drones in their hot,
clickity
-clacking little cubicles. He was flapping his flabby white arms about and yelling into his headset about ratios and quotas. The fluorescent lights made the sweat on his mustache and balding head glisten. The operators, mostly kids in their early twenties, one-finger punched buttons on their keyboards and yak-yakked, pushing their collective products onto mostly unreceptive customers. Some were in high spirits and some were bored and fearful. It wasn’t a job for the weak of spirit… it was a job, one of the few for Anglos in
Montreal
.

“Sebastian, you’re late!” The boss yelled, jabbing his stubby thumbs at the giant LED clock on the wall. “I need you to have another good day buddy.”

“Gotcha,” I replied. I grabbed a headset, wiped it down with an anti-septic and plugged into my terminal. To my right was an eighteen year old white guy whom I often conversed with, mostly about chicks, and on my left, a new girl; young, brunette, nice legs.

“Hey Sebastian, who’s the new chick?” the kid whispered, punching uselessly at his keyboard with one finger to throw off the boss.

“I just got here. You tell me,” I said.

The boss was watching a monitor, so if anyone was off a call for more than two minutes he could yell at them. Then my screen lit up with a loud, “bleep,” that always hurt my ears, alerting me to attention. It was sort of like the slave-masters whip at the crack of dawn. The list of clients was endless, hopeless, like the sins of man. Eight point five hours to go. This is what we do to survive.

“Sebastian! Get on a call!” The boss yelled.

I noticed saliva frothing at the corners of his mouth. He needs water. Maybe it’s just madness. I hit dial and connected to my first client. It rang a few rings and then:

“Hello?” The woman’s voice said.

“Hello. This is operator one-one-nine from Visa Card services. May I please speak to Norma Wilson?”

“Well, this is Norma. How may I help you?”

“I’m just calling on behalf of Visa Card Services to let you know about a great new option we have. It’s called, ‘Physical Asset Protection.’ It’s designed to guard yourself or loved ones for up to one hundred percent coverage on broken bones or injuries from home or work related accidents.”

I forced a smile for the pitch. Supposedly, the customer can tell if you’re happy. I picked it up almost as an unconscious habit due to the fat man’s constant harping of, “Smile Sebastian! Smile!” It had actually been helping me with my pickup skills. The
puas
said the same thing. You can fake being happy to actually be happy. Go figure. And based on the law of state-transference, whatever you feel, they feel. In theory anyway. So people like you more when you’re happy, and they buy your shit, or suck your dick.

“Oh dear,” she said, her voice quivering like a broken harp. “Well, I don’t know, my husband passed away, he used to make these payments, and I’m still on his pension....”

“Oh
Maam
! But what if something were to happen to you, say in the bathtub, or on your way to go shopping? What if you tripped on a curb, or were bitten by a stray dog? What if you were suddenly unable to make payments?” I read the lines off a cheat sheet under, “client objections.” Sometimes I got creative and free-styled horrible, ridiculous tragedies like gang warfare and falling space debris. “But sir, what if a marauding gang of KKK burst into your house and broke your kneecaps?”

“This coverage comes at only two dollars per month,” I continued. “It’s automatically drawn from your credit card with no hassle to you. That’s less than a cup of coffee!”

The cup of coffee was the fat man’s favorite line. He forced all thirty-seven employees to memorize it daily, because about three of them were replaced for various reasons every day: some were fired for failing to make sales, some just quit. It didn’t matter, there were hundreds of call centers, but I chose this one for some reason. Most people have no idea why they work where they work. They just do it because someone told them they’re supposed to work.

“Oh…,
erm
….well that is cheap…” She agreed. “But I don’t know. What do I get exactly? I wish my husband was here to help me decide.”

“
Maam
… Norma, for just two dollars a day you get full bone coverage, up to five thousand dollars—for any bone in your body! It’s a small price to pay for such a feeling of safety.”

I’m good. I’m a smooth talking pickup artist. I smelled blood in the water; old, lonely widow juice. The boss man was watching me. He was probably listening in, Orwellian like.

“Well, I, I never thought of it that way,” she said meekly. “There is no problem with my age? I am getting quite…”

I cut her off. “
Noo
Maaam
! It’s no problem. If you would just answer a few quick payment questions…” I filled her in, pushed past her final objections, then sent her to collections. Sometimes you just get lucky.

It’s all a numbers game they say, but I have talent. Old ladies are the easiest to sell. They want to believe there’s still good in the world and that someone is actually looking out for them. I didn’t tell grandma that the coverage will only cover one bone. She could break a dozen but we would only pay for one measly bone. I’m a bad, bad man. But I’m a bad man with a job. This is how your trip to hell begins, with one little justification.

“Good work Sebastian! I heard that one. Good job! Put Sebastian on the board!” the fat man yelled with a fist pump and a slam of Coca-Cola.

I watched the blubbery bastard and wondered how much money he made off every sale. “You see this everyone? Sebastian’s first sale was his first call! He’s a natural! Be like him. Ryan, get on the board this morning! Christine quit doing your makeup…”

I looked at the girls legs beside me and felt a looming erection. They were superb, like a silken waterslide of….

“Sebastian!” He yelled. “Keep going!”

Shit.

I re-started the queue, and the phone connected once more to another victim.

“Hello?” The man’s gruff voice answered.

“Hello Mr. Atkinson?”

“Yes?”

“This is operator one-one-nine from Visa Card Services….”

“I paid my bill.”

“Yes I understand. I am not a debt collector, sir. I’m with…”

“Then what do you want?”

“Did you know that for just two dollars a day you can be protected for up to one hundred percent protection on every bone in your body?”

A cat meowed in the background. Mr. Atkinson scolded it.

“Look, I lost my job three years ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, sir. We all have unfortunate events in our life. Now more than ever, wouldn’t you want your loved ones to be protected, as well?”

“Protected from what?”

“From injuries, sir.”

“I live alone. I’m divorced for fuck’s sake. My wife left me last year. My kids don’t speak with me. I’m an alcoholic.”

I took a breath and glanced over my shoulder at the fat man. He was eating a Subway sandwich and laughing about something on his cell phone. I looked at the girl’s legs, and down to her feet. She had a ring on her toe… and an ankle bracelet, holy shit, that’s hot. I adjusted my crotch and then my microphone.

“Sir. How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Get on with it, without a job?”

“What else is there to do? I drink and read books. Sometimes I golf,” he said.

“What about money?”

“What about money?”

“
Hmmmm
.”

I left that last comment hanging for a moment. “Sir. Between you and me, you don’t need this service. It’s bullshit. They only protect one bone. You could break twenty bones but they only pay for one. It’s a total scam.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

I heard the cat meow again, then screech.

“Operator… thanks for telling me this. I was considering buying it, just because I liked your voice.”

“Really?”

“No.”

We both laughed.

I looked back at the fat man, and he was staring at me again, sweating more than usual.

“Sir. You have yourself a good day,” I said, panicking. I hoped he wasn’t listening in. I needed this job to buy cool clothes, and eat, and pay rent.

“Yeah buddy, you too.”

I thought I heard the crack of a beer before he hung up. I felt slightly better. This was a good call. I’m filling my karma bank.

The fat man was still staring at me.

The girl was chewing gum and looking at her nails. Her hands were smooth and pretty.

“Hi, I’m Sebastian…”

“Hey,” she said, hardly looking at me.

“Make any sales yet?”

“Nah. I’m shit at this job,” she said.

“You’ll get better.”

“Nah, I’m only here until I make enough to go back to
Thailand
.”

“You’ve been to
Thailand
?”

“Yes, and
Laos
.”

“Cool.”

“Sebastian!” The fat man yelled. “Get on the board! We need another one from you. Lots of people need jobs in this city.”

“Yes sir!”

I pretended to make a call.

“So, are you going out tonight?” I asked.

“Maybe. I don’t know. What’s going on?”

“Well, me and my friends might barbeque a dolphin later.”

“What?”

“It’s the new thing in
Montreal
.”

“That’s gross.”

“Umm.”

She turned away from me.

“I’m joking,” I said.

“You’re weird.”

Good job.

I don’t think I’ve met a girl in my life that didn’t think I was weird or creepy until we had a decent conversation. Being smart is a curse. Obviously, I’m not barbequing a fucking dolphin. Maybe I needed a new line.

I wouldn’t make any commission until my third sale, and by
noon
I’d still only made one. I just wanted the day to end so I could go home, write, read, then go out and meet new girls.

Most people hate their jobs. Some pretend they don’t. They repress the truth to protect their ego. Some people turn their jobs into addictions, maybe they made good money, maybe it filled a void, maybe it made them happy. Mine sure didn’t. No job had ever fulfilled me. I was just surviving—making investment capital for the Reptilians.

By lunch break my eyes were bloodshot, and I was nursing a pronounced headache. The buzzer went off like a prison alarm and we filed out like sedated bovines for our thirty minutes of grazing. Some stood by the staff pool table and ate sandwiches out of bags, some smoked and gossiped on the front step, some went to Tim Horton’s, or Starbucks, or any of the common establishments to spend what little profit they had earned that morning on fatty foods. I went to the park and smoked a joint and stared up at the tall grey buildings and wondered if the people at the top were having a better time than we were. I didn’t feel sorry for myself; every decision I’d ever made put me here. Now I just needed a new decision to lead me down a different path, one out of slavery.

But first, I needed to get laid.