Gotti stopped by the bench today to have a few words with me. I've been benched for a week now, and Gotti thought it a good opportunity to finally catch me during the free time.
We discussed potential assignments that I've been approached about and talked about how to utilize my time on the bench. As Gotti and I were making plans to convene again at a later time and date, Gotti's face scrunched up, mouth open, as he stared past me.
"Dude," he uttered, "What the fuck is up with your chick?"
I turned back to my desk. I had turned away from my workstation with Instant Messaging still open. This chick had been lighting up my screen with messages and Gotti noticed them over my shoulders.
"I think you're a good guy," she had written to me, continuing an unmemorable conversation we were having before Gotti approached me, "What do you think about me? Do you think I'm just some troubled, drama queen, psycho bitch? What do you say to other people about me?"
Then, it got weirder.
"What do you think about me? I think I love you."
She said the L word.
Then, she started spazzing out because I wasn't replying. "Luck? Luck! What do you think about me? Be honest! It's okay if you don't love me as much as I love you!"
Gotti and I stared, dumbfoundedly, at the barrage of messages.
"I was busy," I finally typed back to her, "I am at work."
"Okay," she replied, "So..."
"I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt," I sent to her, "And assume that you really thought this through before saying all this stuff to me. But whatever you had planned -- all of this probably played out a lot better in your head than what's going to actually take place. And let's just leave it at that. Because this conversation just cannot end well for you."
I tapped Ctrl+Alt+Del to lock the computer and slapped the notebook screen closed. Turned my attention back to Gotti, "Sorry about that. Where were we?"
"Dude," he gasped, "You are fucking ice cold."
Friday, June 29, 2007
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
The MRX*
They deftly maneuver and muscle for rank,
Fuel burning fast on an empty tank.
Reckless and wild, they pour through the turns.
-Cake, The Distance
::::::
It had been too long since the main gate had first requested an interpreter from us that day. Ajjusshi, my team leader, sent me to escort our 'terp, Bashir, to the main gate of FOB Brassfield--the forward operating base for U.S. forces operating in Samarra, Iraq. Bashir is a class 1 interpreter--he is not a U.S. citizen and has no security clearance. He cannot be trusted to wander the FOB freely.I had dropped Bashir off at the gate with the boys from Nemesis troop and returned to my section, expecting him back in 15 minutes. Three Iraqi locals had come up to the gate, demanding something in Arabic, but since FOB security does not have its own dedicated interpreter, they'd called us to lend them ours.
When Nemesis had not returned him after almost an hour, I grabbed my weapon and went to investigate.
When I got there, I saw that Bashir was entangled in a new problem. The three other visitors had gone, but now there was a humvee parked at the gate. It had Iraqi flags on its side panels, and the driver's door was open. Next to the vehicle, Bashir and an American soldier were standing out there, smokin' and jokin' with a guy wearing the Iraqi Army uniform. I yelled to the sergeant in charge of the gate, "What's going on here?"
"This guy at the gate says he's here to link up with one of the companies for a mission this afternoon. Says he's Iraqi Army, but he wasn't on the access roster."
"What are we waiting for now, then?"
"We called the S2 to send someone to clear this up." The S2 is a field-grade shop that handles securities and intel for the entire squadron.
Just then, I saw a lone soldier trotting up to the gate from the direction of the Tactical Operations Center. He jogged by me and outside the gate and exchanged a few words with the Iraqi soldier before turning around and walking back inside the gate.
The Iraqi got inside his humvee and turned it around. We watched the vehicle kick up dust as it rolled away, and just as it disappeared around a bend in the road, AK fire broke out from the wood line, not 20 meters southwest from one of the gate guards and my 'terp. They were still outside the wire.
Immediately the 240B machine gunner in the guard tower returned bursts after bursts of rounds into to woods. Even if the shots hadn't killed the attackers, the machine-gun fire would keep the enemy's head down and allow our men to run back inside. The lone gate guard rushed back inside and fell into his fighting position in the guard shack. Bashir ran back inside, one hand atop his helmet and the other swinging madly. Over the staccato crackle of small arms fire, I heard a whistle and someone yelling, "INCOMING!"
I reached Bashir just as the first mortar landed. I have no idea where it hit, but no doubt the attackers would walk their fire towards the gate, right where we were. I grabbed Bashir's hand, pulled him from the gate, and we both took off towards the nearest break in the berm, 50 meters away. More mortars fell, getting closer and closer to our position. Even if behind proper cover, when a mortar lands close enough it causes a concussive blast that often disorients soldiers and makes them dizzy enough to vomit.
We hopped ditches, cut diagonally towards the opening, and I shouted, "There!" as we crossed through the berm and sighted the buildings of our own mortar teams. It was another 50-meter sprint before we crashed through their door, seeking refuge from the incoming bombardment.
There was some private inside hastily strapping on his body armor. He looked up at us, puzzled about who the fuck we were.
"We were at the gate. Took small arms fire and when we returned fire, they mortared us. You got a radio or a phone in here?"
"Yeah," he replied, motioning towards the desk at the back of the room full of cots.
Without asking, I walked past all of the empty cots, picked up the phone and dialed my team. When our FOB comes under attack, we bunker up inside of a hard shelter and take accountability of all of forces. No doubt my team leader was worried that I'd been caught up in the attack.
"Hey, Ajjusshi, I went to pick Bashir up, and we took small arms and mortar fire just as a local at the gate left. We're inside the mortars' building now. Gimme a call back when they announce the all clear."
"All right, man. That might be awhile. It just came over the net that there was a breach in the perimeter and there might be enemy inside the FOB right now."
"Roger that. Out."
I looked up at Bashir, who was breathing hard. Bashir is an older man, mid-40's, balding with a son almost 20 years old. I was surprised that he was able to keep pace with me as we sprinted from the gate to the mortars' building. We smiled at each other, and I told him, "You lucky son of a bitch. That was almost you dead out there!"
::::::
*MRX = Mission Rehearsal Exercise, the scenario-based prolonged field exercise that units go through as a final training before deployment.Saturday, June 9, 2007
Shinin' Like I Supposed To
Closing out the first week of training, The Company treated us trainees out to a Friday night happy hour and dinner at a Mexican restaurant in Rice Village. There, I met for the first time a couple of the more veteran employees. It was the first chance I'd gotten to meet any of the employees outside of my own training class.
The Company organizes new hires like a fraternity; we each get assigned to a Big Brother type of mentor, with whom we're supposedly going to develop a bonding relationship and receive guidance from.
My mentor, Gotti, is a dude with bleached, spiked hair and a very defined goatee. He says "dude" and "fuck" between every other word, so I assume we're going to get along just fine. That, and he called me a bitch for originally declining his offer to hop to another bar to drink.
I ain't a bitch, though, so I took up on it.
I met another guy, Lean -- a brawny Asian fellow that didn't work for The Company, but apparently knew enough of the employees to join their nights out. Lean was a cool cat with a level of confidence that just made him likeable. He had the whole shoulders back, chin up posture going on. He was an alpha male if I'd ever met one.
From the Village, I bummed a ride with Lean to a bar in Midtown with a Western theme. The bar was wooden brown from floor to ceiling, and there were saddles and longhorn skulls as decors plastered all over the walls. Stepping in, I half-expected to find a mechanical riding bull.
The crowd, however, was nothing like the place. It was a college crowd and young professional hangout, with diverse groups occupying every corner.
As soon as we stepped through the doors, everyone completely separated ways. This is uncommon to me because when I go to places with my usual friends, we swarm the bar together and pretty much stick together the whole night as a single group. Lean and Gotti took a part-ways-and-do-your-own-thing approach.
I kind of like it.
-
I caught sight of Lean a little later in the night; he was running game on a married woman. As I stood off to the side, finishing up a drink, I saw her in the corner of my eyes lean over and give him a peck on the lips.
She pulled back abruptly and gasped, "Oh God! I'm married!"
Lean replied in a suave, nonchalant manner -- almost reflexively, like the way someone responds "you're welcome" to a "thank you." He responded, "It's okay, I'm wearing chapstick. That one didn't count."
The married woman calmed almost instantaneously, "Oh, okay." Then she proceeded to lean in for another kiss.
I couldn't believe it! I had pretty much witnessed the entire thought process of this lady at work. She was spazzing out, thinking, Oh God! Oh God! I'm married! I shouldn't be doing this! And all it took was some cool, suave response -- even with the stupidest justification ever -- and it shut her mind the fuck off. Lean was motherfucking pimp!
I made a mental note to start carrying around chapsticks. Because if chapsticks don't count, I can get away with anything.
-
I was wandering around with Liger, a fellow trainee, when we found a booth in a corner occupied by four girls. And no dudes.
As I walked by, three of the girls were posing together in the seat while one aimed her camera.
"Why don't you jump in the picture?" I said to her, "Here, I'll take it."
"Really?" she handed me the camera, "Hey, thanks!" The four got together and made their crazy poses and stupid faces that girls love to do when they see a camera.
One of the girls, a sexy blonde in a smoking red shirt, made an O-face at the camera.
"That face," I said to her, as I showed her the screen, "That is an awesome face!"
She laughed and mocked up another O-face in response.
"Hey, chill out," I stopped her, "We just met; don't start fakin' it just yet."
She laughed again and thanked me for the photo.
"So, what's the occasion?" I asked, purposefully in an inaudible tone.
"What?" she leaned over the gap.
I closed the gap, placed a hand on the small of her back and held her to the side of my face, "What's the occasion? You guys are pullin' out all the stops, girls night out, with the camera flashin' and all!"
"I just graduated!" she exclaimed, doing a jittery hand dance.
"No shit? Me too!"
"Where from?" she inquired.
"Houston."
"Oh my God, me too!"
And just like that, instant rapport. If only all pick-ups were that easy.
As we spoke, though, I noticed Liger had dropped himself into limbo, lingering nearby silently, not quite part of the group, but not quite apart from it either. Fucking IT people -- I'd forgotten how socially inept they can be.
"Let me introduce you to my friend," I said to the girl and waved Liger over, "This is Liger, a friend of mine. We're co-workers." They shook hands, and Liger looked relieved to finally be moved into the foreground.
I turned away and let the two talk -- there were four girls, after all. Almost immediately, one of the other girls took hold of me. "Oh my God!" she blurted to her friends, "This one is so cute!"
I gave her a weirded out look; she was obviously inebriated beyond inhibition, but she was pretty cute. I went from the sexy one to the drunk one -- fuck it, I'm not picky.
"You are so cute yourself," I said and threw an arm around her, "What's your name?"
Her name was Elizabeth. She asked for mine. "Lucky," I responded.
"Lucky?" she repeated.
"Yeah, Lucky. Like the dalmation, only cuter."
Her eyes lit up, "Oh my God! Yes! You are so cute!" She wrung both arms around me, "Oh my God! I am keeping you!" It was kind of like Elmyra from Tiny Toons, except I was bigger than her. And not furry.
-
I isolated Elizabeth, and we went to the bar. We talked a bit, but conversation was pretty hopeless because she was just too drunk to carry on very long without mentioning how cute she thought I was. So, we just settled into a make-out session.
Not too long into our session, a few of my co-workers interrupted us. Lean was taking off and had been looking for me.
"Lemme take you back to your friends," I told Elizabeth.
We walked back to the booth, and found her recently-graduated friend sitting by herself in the corner, bored. Liger had abandoned her.
Obviously, the night out had been in celebration of her graduation, and so upon seeing her friend alone and bored, Elizabeth immediately went to her side. And just like that, I'd been shut out.
When I said my goodbye's, they waved me off without a second thought. No close.
-
I reconvened with Lean, and he gave me a gesture of approval for the make-out session. I applauded his work with the married woman. But I didn't let him know I hadn't closed.
On the way out, I found Liger.
"What happened to you?" I asked, "You left that chick all alone, man! She was sa-mokin'!"
"I dunno, man," he shrugged, "Where'd you go? You left me all alone with her, I didn't know what to do!"
Fucking IT folks. So fucking antisocial.
The Company organizes new hires like a fraternity; we each get assigned to a Big Brother type of mentor, with whom we're supposedly going to develop a bonding relationship and receive guidance from.
My mentor, Gotti, is a dude with bleached, spiked hair and a very defined goatee. He says "dude" and "fuck" between every other word, so I assume we're going to get along just fine. That, and he called me a bitch for originally declining his offer to hop to another bar to drink.
I ain't a bitch, though, so I took up on it.
I met another guy, Lean -- a brawny Asian fellow that didn't work for The Company, but apparently knew enough of the employees to join their nights out. Lean was a cool cat with a level of confidence that just made him likeable. He had the whole shoulders back, chin up posture going on. He was an alpha male if I'd ever met one.
From the Village, I bummed a ride with Lean to a bar in Midtown with a Western theme. The bar was wooden brown from floor to ceiling, and there were saddles and longhorn skulls as decors plastered all over the walls. Stepping in, I half-expected to find a mechanical riding bull.
The crowd, however, was nothing like the place. It was a college crowd and young professional hangout, with diverse groups occupying every corner.
As soon as we stepped through the doors, everyone completely separated ways. This is uncommon to me because when I go to places with my usual friends, we swarm the bar together and pretty much stick together the whole night as a single group. Lean and Gotti took a part-ways-and-do-your-own-thing approach.
I kind of like it.
-
I caught sight of Lean a little later in the night; he was running game on a married woman. As I stood off to the side, finishing up a drink, I saw her in the corner of my eyes lean over and give him a peck on the lips.
She pulled back abruptly and gasped, "Oh God! I'm married!"
Lean replied in a suave, nonchalant manner -- almost reflexively, like the way someone responds "you're welcome" to a "thank you." He responded, "It's okay, I'm wearing chapstick. That one didn't count."
The married woman calmed almost instantaneously, "Oh, okay." Then she proceeded to lean in for another kiss.
I couldn't believe it! I had pretty much witnessed the entire thought process of this lady at work. She was spazzing out, thinking, Oh God! Oh God! I'm married! I shouldn't be doing this! And all it took was some cool, suave response -- even with the stupidest justification ever -- and it shut her mind the fuck off. Lean was motherfucking pimp!
I made a mental note to start carrying around chapsticks. Because if chapsticks don't count, I can get away with anything.
-
I was wandering around with Liger, a fellow trainee, when we found a booth in a corner occupied by four girls. And no dudes.
As I walked by, three of the girls were posing together in the seat while one aimed her camera.
"Why don't you jump in the picture?" I said to her, "Here, I'll take it."
"Really?" she handed me the camera, "Hey, thanks!" The four got together and made their crazy poses and stupid faces that girls love to do when they see a camera.
One of the girls, a sexy blonde in a smoking red shirt, made an O-face at the camera.
"That face," I said to her, as I showed her the screen, "That is an awesome face!"
She laughed and mocked up another O-face in response.
"Hey, chill out," I stopped her, "We just met; don't start fakin' it just yet."
She laughed again and thanked me for the photo.
"So, what's the occasion?" I asked, purposefully in an inaudible tone.
"What?" she leaned over the gap.
I closed the gap, placed a hand on the small of her back and held her to the side of my face, "What's the occasion? You guys are pullin' out all the stops, girls night out, with the camera flashin' and all!"
"I just graduated!" she exclaimed, doing a jittery hand dance.
"No shit? Me too!"
"Where from?" she inquired.
"Houston."
"Oh my God, me too!"
And just like that, instant rapport. If only all pick-ups were that easy.
As we spoke, though, I noticed Liger had dropped himself into limbo, lingering nearby silently, not quite part of the group, but not quite apart from it either. Fucking IT people -- I'd forgotten how socially inept they can be.
"Let me introduce you to my friend," I said to the girl and waved Liger over, "This is Liger, a friend of mine. We're co-workers." They shook hands, and Liger looked relieved to finally be moved into the foreground.
I turned away and let the two talk -- there were four girls, after all. Almost immediately, one of the other girls took hold of me. "Oh my God!" she blurted to her friends, "This one is so cute!"
I gave her a weirded out look; she was obviously inebriated beyond inhibition, but she was pretty cute. I went from the sexy one to the drunk one -- fuck it, I'm not picky.
"You are so cute yourself," I said and threw an arm around her, "What's your name?"
Her name was Elizabeth. She asked for mine. "Lucky," I responded.
"Lucky?" she repeated.
"Yeah, Lucky. Like the dalmation, only cuter."
Her eyes lit up, "Oh my God! Yes! You are so cute!" She wrung both arms around me, "Oh my God! I am keeping you!" It was kind of like Elmyra from Tiny Toons, except I was bigger than her. And not furry.
-
I isolated Elizabeth, and we went to the bar. We talked a bit, but conversation was pretty hopeless because she was just too drunk to carry on very long without mentioning how cute she thought I was. So, we just settled into a make-out session.
Not too long into our session, a few of my co-workers interrupted us. Lean was taking off and had been looking for me.
"Lemme take you back to your friends," I told Elizabeth.
We walked back to the booth, and found her recently-graduated friend sitting by herself in the corner, bored. Liger had abandoned her.
Obviously, the night out had been in celebration of her graduation, and so upon seeing her friend alone and bored, Elizabeth immediately went to her side. And just like that, I'd been shut out.
When I said my goodbye's, they waved me off without a second thought. No close.
-
I reconvened with Lean, and he gave me a gesture of approval for the make-out session. I applauded his work with the married woman. But I didn't let him know I hadn't closed.
On the way out, I found Liger.
"What happened to you?" I asked, "You left that chick all alone, man! She was sa-mokin'!"
"I dunno, man," he shrugged, "Where'd you go? You left me all alone with her, I didn't know what to do!"
Fucking IT folks. So fucking antisocial.
Sunday, June 3, 2007
Mentoring Program
Though I'd only worked one day this week and didn't do anything anyone would actually consider work, Big Ben, Hyphy, and I docked ourselves on the strip afterward for Friday happy hour.
Our waitress was a cute Hispanic chick with a curvacious trunk. As she set down our drinks, Big Ben nonchalantly responded, "Thanks." He paused briefly and followed up, "You're the best."
She smiled ear-to-ear and made a shoulder-squeeze-dipping curtsy kind of move, "Thanks!"
So easy.
Happy hour stretched late into the night, and we were joined by the rest of the boys. Our party grew to fifteen in size, and we dominated the entire lounge area of the bar. The waitresses sat and drank with us. We ordered two liters of vodka.
A second waitress came in to help service our crowd, and she and the curtsy waitress hung out all night in our corner. The new waitress was slender and beautiful, a pair of red devil wings tattooed above her ass. Devil Wings delivered a bottle of vodka to our table and nudged Scarface, "Let me know if you guys need anything, all right?"
He said, "I will, I will. What's your name?" They exchanged some words, inaudible to me, and then he pulled her closer and they continued a conversation.
So easy.
As much as I pride myself in my ability to be social, approachable, and likeable, watching the guys at work will always humble me. Even when one of them has a newborn kid at home.
-
I spent Saturday night at another club with Tam and Bingo. Bingo, for as long as I can remember, has always been caught up in long-term relationships -- the kind that leaves a man without his balls.
He's without shackles, now, and I've taken it upon myself to help him regain his balls. He's receptive because, I assume, he's fed up with the bullshit he's been through for the past few years.
"It's about image," I told him over our first drink, "Think about a photo of some friends having a good time over dinner. You don't know anyone in the photo, you're making up your own stories about the photo. But, just by looking at that photo, you can tell some things about those people -- there's always one guy that everybody is looking at, smiling at, talking to; he's the life of the party. There's always that one guy that's part of the background, probably looking in some off-direction or texting on his phone."
Bingo was replying to a text message; I stopped him.
"Imagine your life in a series of photos," I continued, "Every moment you are out, you are living a photo. Be the guy that's the life of the party in every photo. Every girl that looks in our direction sees me as the guy that's talking, that's making hand motions. You're the guy listening, looking up at me. I'm the leader up in this motherfucker. You're the bitch right now. You don't want to be the bitch."
The waitress tapped me on the shoulder and whispered into my ear, "Do you guys need anything while I'm here?" I politely declined and with a smile. She responded with her own smile and left.
"That waitress didn't even bother to look at you, did you see that? Quit being a bitch."
Bingo straightened his posture to look more alive.
"It's about confidence," I declared, "It's about keeping your shoulders back and your chin up and saying, 'I am the shit.' And believing it." I looked Bingo dead in the eyes, "Never. Break. Eye. Contact. That's a sign of confidence. Some guys like to blitz -- they approach the girl as soon as they see them or they lose their balls. That works, too. But I don't -- I'll break her down from here. You look a girl dead in the eyes, until she smiles or until she shies away -- either way, you win."
My eyes trailed off to a pair of girls walking toward the bar. One had whorish bleached hair and a tight, sand-colored dress.
"It's about confidence," I repeated, "It's about walking into a room and truly believing that every girl wants you more than you want her. And I mean, you have to really believe it, 'cause it can't be faked. Girls can smell that shit. You see that girl over there?" I pointed at the whore in the sand dress. She looked up to catch me staring and pointing at her. "That bitch wants me. Watch." I maintained eye contact, and the words I said were inaudible to her. Her eyes shied away, and she broke into a coy smile.
Tam got out of his seat and pulled Bingo up with him. He gestured toward the dance floor, at two girls dancing together. "I'm working the one in pink," he declared, "You get her friend; let's put the lecture to work."
Tam and Bingo went to the floor, and Tam blitzed the girl in pink. Bingo hung back bashfully and watched -- he hesitated too long and never gathered himself to talk to the friend. Tam worked his girl, and after a few minutes, she began to dance close to him. He looked over to see if Bingo had seen, and after being acknowledged, they walked away from the girl.
-
We went to a diner afterward.
I started up again, "What I'm trying to show you -- I want you to understand this clearly -- is not how to meet girls or sleep with them. This is not how to get a girlfriend, and Lord knows, this is not how to keep one. What I'm showing you is how to be likeable, not just to girls, not just to Tam or myself, but to everyone.
"And this is not just going to help you with girls. This is valuable shit in your social life and your professional life. Everywhere you want to go, you'll get there easier if people like you.
"With that in mind, I want you to listen very carefully to what I'm about to tell you. We are not malicious people. We are not doing this to get what we want and leave rubbles in our tracks. We are men.
"So listen carefully: no man is truly a man unless he leaves this world a better place than it was before he came. Some people do this by building hospitals in Africa, some adopt skinny babies from Asia. I am not those people. I believe that the quality of this world is measured in large by the quality of its people. It is therefore my job -- and yours -- to make sure that every man walks away from you a better man than he was before he met you.
"Apply this to every aspect of your life, and you will be likeable, you will be approachable, you will get girls, girls, girls. But above all, you will be a man. Let no girl walk away from you less than what she was before she met you. If nothing else, teach her a new song.
"It's the little things that make differences you could never imagine. Little things like holding the door open or saying 'thank you' or 'bless you' that could make or break someone's day.
Make someone's day."
The waitress, an aging black lady, came out and delivered our food. As she took a step away from the table, I said to her, "Thanks. You're the best." I ripped a page straight from Big Ben's book. But not for flirting.
She turned back with a pause and placed a hand over her chest, completely dumbfounded by the words of encouragement in the given environment. "Thank you!" she finally spewed after a moment of speechlessness.
"Little things," I repeated to Bingo after the waitress disappeared in the back, "Make someone's day."
Our waitress was a cute Hispanic chick with a curvacious trunk. As she set down our drinks, Big Ben nonchalantly responded, "Thanks." He paused briefly and followed up, "You're the best."
She smiled ear-to-ear and made a shoulder-squeeze-dipping curtsy kind of move, "Thanks!"
So easy.
Happy hour stretched late into the night, and we were joined by the rest of the boys. Our party grew to fifteen in size, and we dominated the entire lounge area of the bar. The waitresses sat and drank with us. We ordered two liters of vodka.
A second waitress came in to help service our crowd, and she and the curtsy waitress hung out all night in our corner. The new waitress was slender and beautiful, a pair of red devil wings tattooed above her ass. Devil Wings delivered a bottle of vodka to our table and nudged Scarface, "Let me know if you guys need anything, all right?"
He said, "I will, I will. What's your name?" They exchanged some words, inaudible to me, and then he pulled her closer and they continued a conversation.
So easy.
As much as I pride myself in my ability to be social, approachable, and likeable, watching the guys at work will always humble me. Even when one of them has a newborn kid at home.
-
I spent Saturday night at another club with Tam and Bingo. Bingo, for as long as I can remember, has always been caught up in long-term relationships -- the kind that leaves a man without his balls.
He's without shackles, now, and I've taken it upon myself to help him regain his balls. He's receptive because, I assume, he's fed up with the bullshit he's been through for the past few years.
"It's about image," I told him over our first drink, "Think about a photo of some friends having a good time over dinner. You don't know anyone in the photo, you're making up your own stories about the photo. But, just by looking at that photo, you can tell some things about those people -- there's always one guy that everybody is looking at, smiling at, talking to; he's the life of the party. There's always that one guy that's part of the background, probably looking in some off-direction or texting on his phone."
Bingo was replying to a text message; I stopped him.
"Imagine your life in a series of photos," I continued, "Every moment you are out, you are living a photo. Be the guy that's the life of the party in every photo. Every girl that looks in our direction sees me as the guy that's talking, that's making hand motions. You're the guy listening, looking up at me. I'm the leader up in this motherfucker. You're the bitch right now. You don't want to be the bitch."
The waitress tapped me on the shoulder and whispered into my ear, "Do you guys need anything while I'm here?" I politely declined and with a smile. She responded with her own smile and left.
"That waitress didn't even bother to look at you, did you see that? Quit being a bitch."
Bingo straightened his posture to look more alive.
"It's about confidence," I declared, "It's about keeping your shoulders back and your chin up and saying, 'I am the shit.' And believing it." I looked Bingo dead in the eyes, "Never. Break. Eye. Contact. That's a sign of confidence. Some guys like to blitz -- they approach the girl as soon as they see them or they lose their balls. That works, too. But I don't -- I'll break her down from here. You look a girl dead in the eyes, until she smiles or until she shies away -- either way, you win."
My eyes trailed off to a pair of girls walking toward the bar. One had whorish bleached hair and a tight, sand-colored dress.
"It's about confidence," I repeated, "It's about walking into a room and truly believing that every girl wants you more than you want her. And I mean, you have to really believe it, 'cause it can't be faked. Girls can smell that shit. You see that girl over there?" I pointed at the whore in the sand dress. She looked up to catch me staring and pointing at her. "That bitch wants me. Watch." I maintained eye contact, and the words I said were inaudible to her. Her eyes shied away, and she broke into a coy smile.
Tam got out of his seat and pulled Bingo up with him. He gestured toward the dance floor, at two girls dancing together. "I'm working the one in pink," he declared, "You get her friend; let's put the lecture to work."
Tam and Bingo went to the floor, and Tam blitzed the girl in pink. Bingo hung back bashfully and watched -- he hesitated too long and never gathered himself to talk to the friend. Tam worked his girl, and after a few minutes, she began to dance close to him. He looked over to see if Bingo had seen, and after being acknowledged, they walked away from the girl.
-
We went to a diner afterward.
I started up again, "What I'm trying to show you -- I want you to understand this clearly -- is not how to meet girls or sleep with them. This is not how to get a girlfriend, and Lord knows, this is not how to keep one. What I'm showing you is how to be likeable, not just to girls, not just to Tam or myself, but to everyone.
"And this is not just going to help you with girls. This is valuable shit in your social life and your professional life. Everywhere you want to go, you'll get there easier if people like you.
"With that in mind, I want you to listen very carefully to what I'm about to tell you. We are not malicious people. We are not doing this to get what we want and leave rubbles in our tracks. We are men.
"So listen carefully: no man is truly a man unless he leaves this world a better place than it was before he came. Some people do this by building hospitals in Africa, some adopt skinny babies from Asia. I am not those people. I believe that the quality of this world is measured in large by the quality of its people. It is therefore my job -- and yours -- to make sure that every man walks away from you a better man than he was before he met you.
"Apply this to every aspect of your life, and you will be likeable, you will be approachable, you will get girls, girls, girls. But above all, you will be a man. Let no girl walk away from you less than what she was before she met you. If nothing else, teach her a new song.
"It's the little things that make differences you could never imagine. Little things like holding the door open or saying 'thank you' or 'bless you' that could make or break someone's day.
Make someone's day."
The waitress, an aging black lady, came out and delivered our food. As she took a step away from the table, I said to her, "Thanks. You're the best." I ripped a page straight from Big Ben's book. But not for flirting.
She turned back with a pause and placed a hand over her chest, completely dumbfounded by the words of encouragement in the given environment. "Thank you!" she finally spewed after a moment of speechlessness.
"Little things," I repeated to Bingo after the waitress disappeared in the back, "Make someone's day."
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