Estimated reading time: 14 minutes
“Well?”
I shake my head and swipe the sweat off my brow with the hand that is gloved. He says something. It’s hard to hear above the music – some electropop synthesised tripe laid on top of an eighties melody. I’m trying to place it. He tugs on the top of my jacket and I snap out of the playlist of my youth.
We leave the dancefloor and make a beeline for the corner of the club, weaving past flying elbows as the song hits its crescendo. A plastic pint glass flies overhead. No one seems to notice except myself and Streak as we slip through the crowd. Some of the beer lands on me. At least I think it’s beer. I look up just as we leave the edge of the dancefloor. A circle of lads directly above, lean over the banister to get a good look at the talent below. ‘Keyboard jockeys’ as Streak would call them.
That’s not his real name of course. That’s his nom de plume. His avatar. Given to him by Master PUA ‘Bullet’ during a workshop in London last year. I, of course, know Streak as David Dawson from 32 Roebuck Street, Dublin. The same David Dawson who hadn’t kissed a girl until he was twenty-two years old. All that’s in the past though.
When we get to the corner of the club, it’s only slightly quieter with the stomping bass just out of reach. It’s a little more illuminated – a no go area for the amorous couples who seek the nooks and crannies of the artificial cave walls.
“Where’s your bandana?” Streak asks.
“My target took it.”
“You gave it to her?”
“No. She just took it,” I say and shake my head. There’s a look of disappointment on his face. I feel the heat rise to my cheeks. Not only of the incident minutes earlier where the girl I was talking to ripped my bandana off and started passing it around her friends, but of the other rejections that have marked my training in the last few weeks.
Streak notices my discomfort, plants an assured hand on my shoulder and shakes me.
“Come on Silver. You’re better than that. Don’t let it get you down. Birds feed off that kind of energy.” He beams an artificial smile at me, which looks a little maniacal under the spotlight. It feeds me a little energy though, and he playfully starts sparring with me until my composure returns.
“You’re not still thinking about her are you?”
His question comes out of left field. She hasn’t been on my mind all night, thanks in part to the crippling approach anxiety I’ve been battling, as well as trying to adjust to the high octane club environment. Memories of her start flooding back. The one that got away. Everyone has one. It lights a fire under many PUA’s like myself – pick-up artists who want to fix what was once considered broken, in the hope that a future partner won’t see the scar tissue.
“Snap out of it.” Streak’s slap across my face isn’t strong but it’s enough to shock me back to reality. “Come on man. You’re Silver! You can talk your way out of anything! Get your shit together, soldier.”
“OK. What should I do?”
He picks up his watch and looks at it. It hangs from a thick necklace onto his chest and is as big as my bedside alarm clock. For the first time he seems to notice the bright light overhead. Slipping out a pair of dark sunglasses from within his inside blazer pocket, he puts them on and rubs his hands together between our faces. The ring stones and polished brass sparkle.
“Showtime, baby! What’s your opener?”
“My opener?”
“Jesus, Silver. Don’t tell me you’re going in with your chump lines?”
“No. I’m using the Baby Names routine.”
“What?!”
“It worked for me during the day. I hooked two girls for six—no, seven minutes in a café with it.”
“Didn’t pass the ten minute threshold. Doesn’t count.”
He’s holding his head in his hands. At the titter of girls nearby, the bejewelled fingers splay open. When he pulls his hand away, the familiar mask has returned – big smile as if I’ve just told the most hilarious joke in the world. I know what’s coming and take a sidestep. He catches them just as they pass.
“Did you guys see that as well?” The girls stop mid-conversation and look at one another and then back at Streak. “Seriously. You didn’t see that?” He’s almost incredulous at their confused response and looks to me for support. I play my stooge act and shake my head, sharing his bafflement.
“See what?” The girls have stopped, a hint of a smile on their lips. The blonde is in front, stunningly beautiful – a solid 8.5. Her friend isn’t quite on the same scale. I pivot my body so that we make a circle. It’s important that we include both girls in the conversation.
“There was a fight on the dance floor just now.”
“No way!” they both say.
“Yeah! Two girls. Both throwing mad Conor McGregor punches. Can’t believe you missed it! Bouncers had to jump in and separate them. One of the girls had the top part of her dress ripped off. Boobs flying everywhere. And I’m talking National Geographic flapper boobs. Not the type you’d want the whole club to be seeing.”
Both girls are laughing now. The brunette, a little aloof at the blonde’s elbow, looks a little timid at the telling of the story. I make a note, discounting some of the stories I’ve stored in reserve for such scenarios. My role in this dynamic would be to keep her entertained.
“You guys are funny,” the blonde says. Her eyes aim the compliment toward Streak. That’s the first. Two more during the night would be enough indicators of interest to go for the kiss.
“Yeah,” Streak says. “Girls tell me it’s my second best quality.”
“What’s the first?” the blonde asks.
“I’ve got a really big – I mean a HUGE (he spreads his hands apart) personality.”
Again more laughter. More so from the blonde. Does that count as a second indicator? If it comes in quick succession, does it matter? I file a mental note to ask later.
“Where are my manners?” Streak says and claps a hand on my back. “This is my good friend and world class salesman, Silver, as in silver tongue. As for myself, my friends call me Streak. And you ladies? Apart from being incredibly lucky to have met us tonight, you are?”
“I’m Sam and this is Amy,” the blonde says, barely taking her eyes off Streak. “Is that a real clock around your neck? That’s the most hilarious thing I’ve ever seen! Just like that rapper!”
Everyone shakes hands and I inevitably find myself closest to the brunette called Amy. She seems nervous in my company, not least because her friend has turned her back on us and I have yet to say a single word. I’m going through lines in my head, looking for something that has worked in the past but nothing leaps out.
A couple of kissing bodies chip off from the pack of the dancefloor and slowly shuffle towards me. I use my forearm to gently herd them away to seats along the wall and smile at Amy. For a second I almost shrug and say ‘Kids, eh?’, suddenly feeling my age, until I catch myself with the realisation that I’m also probably a decade older than my target. I start to consider that perhaps under the light, my age might be showing and glance in the direction of Streak to suggest moving somewhere a little darker to even the playing field.
“I like your wristband,” Amy says. For a moment her remark doesn’t register until I look at where she is pointing. The coloured wristband has a swirl of beads that shimmy like a snake skin when I move it on my wrist.
“Thanks. It was actually a gift from a shaman in Peru.”
“Really?” she asks. “You were in Peru? What were you doing there?”
I’ve only ever told the story once before, but have never tested it in the field.
“I spent a week in the jungle taking the ancient hallucinogenic medicine ayahuasca.”
“Wow! What happened?” First bite. Easy does it Silver, I can hear the voice in my head.
I shake my head, intentionally breaking eye contact. My smile slides quickly away as if the memory frightens it off. All part of the drama.
“My father passed away three years ago. We never had a chance to say our goodbyes. I initially went there to get closure but I wasn’t ready for what I saw in the visions.”
“You poor thing!” The second bite. I can feel the tug on the line and with it the pressure to know when to pull the hook.
However, the music isn’t lending itself to the narrative of my story. I recognise it as the theme tune for the Darts on the telly. Unfortunately, most of the young crowd know it too, singing along and hopping from foot to foot. The thread that I was beginning to unravel about someone else’s dead father might be better off being cut. I look across to Streak who already has his phone out and is collecting the digits of the blonde. He has an arm around her waist. She isn’t resisting and her laughs suggest that he’s read the situation much better than me. No change there.
Amy has looked to my left. I follow her gaze. The woman’s hand is on the crotch of the guy. His hand is lost somewhere between her legs, inching up the skirt.
“We’ll catch you girls on the dancefloor in ten.” It’s the voice of Streak. The blonde is holding his hand in both of hers. She goes in for a kiss but he offers her the side of his face and taps his cheek instead. “Hey you! Not before you buy me a drink first. I’m not that easy! I’ve heard about you Donegal girls.”
The blonde feigns mock hurt before flashing a cheeky smile. She grabs her friend’s hand and we watch them walk curl around the dancefloor to seek the nearest bar. The brunette attempts to look back but is pulled through the crowd before they are soon lost to view.
“Well?” Streak asks.
“Well what?”
“Did you number close?”
“I barely had two minutes with the girl!”
“Didn’t stop me,” he says. “Cute girl. The streak continues.”
“How many?”
“238 days in a row. 300 odd phone numbers.”
“You going to call this one?”
We are momentarily distracted as the amorous couple by our side, just feet away, continue their public show. The woman is now straddling him on the couch, skirt hitched up to mid-thigh.
“Come on,” he says. “That’s an affront to the senses. No decorum anymore. Let me get you a drink.”
We skirt the dance floor and soon found ourselves at the bar which is three people deep. With fading hope, I continue scanning for my bandana, either on the floor or on someone’s head. My attempts to ‘peacock’ and appear visually appealing to the opposite sex have failed. We’re now surrounded by guys, most of whom are empty-handed for the night and looking for a final shot of confidence which will propel them onto the battlefield of the dancefloor.
“What’s the plan?” I ask.
“Two cokes. Keep it sober. We’re sharper then.”
“No. I mean, what next? You know my dance game is weak.”
“Play to your strengths. Hang around the edges. Pick up the rifle and look for a Bambi.”
“What about your target, and her mate?”
“C’mon Silver. We’re gardeners. You always need to be planting seeds. Always have a contingency plan.”
Drinks are being passed from the front line to bodies at the back. There’s an opening and Streak takes it, cutting straight to the bar counter. The gap closes quickly and I’m left rooted to the spot. I give up trying to wedge in and shout to say I’ll be standing back in the corner where we left. Streak gives a thumbs up.
Some pushing from the bar spits me out of the row. I fall against a kid carrying three plastic pints of beer. One slips from his grasp and spills down the front of his shirt. I hold out a hand to apologise. His back is turned to me and I watch him take one of the beers and sink it in one gulp. Then all of a sudden, he turns around quickly and punches me clean in the jaw. I stagger back, hoping for something to break my fall. Instead I trip over someone’s foot and hit the floor. As I rise to my feet, a couple of hands pull me upright.
“Christ, Davey, you just KO’d Michael Jackson,” one of the guys says. He looks worse for wear, barely old enough to have passed his leaving cert. “Check out the glove.”
A hand reaches out and grabs my own. The glove is ripped from it and passed around.
“Dopes got a skull and crossbones on his belt too! Davey, look at this nobhead!”
As he walks toward me, I’m measuring the gravity of the situation. The group begin to make a circle around me, pressing me closer to the wall of the club. They’re smiling, noticing my distress. I look toward the bar. Streak is there, kissing the blonde girl. They’ve found a little nook in the corner away from the torrent of hungry punters. His back is turned to me. Shit.
“Looks like this fruitcake is bent. Take the jacket lads.” Two men on either side of me follow the order and rip it off my arms. The bracelet comes off with it. I can hear it crunch under a boot. The jacket is passed back to Davey who inspects the inside pockets, before tossing it to one side.
“Listen. It was an accident,” I plead. “Let me buy you a pint. All of youse.”
“Yeah, you’d like that, you old faggot.”
Slowly, I’m being corralled into one of the dark corners of the club. They’ve closed ranks and with it any way for me to get past. I look around desperately for help either from a bouncer or Streak but find neither.
“Line him up.”
Two taller guys, stocky rugby types pin me to the wall, pressing my wrists against it. They step on my feet to prevent me from squirming. My body is exposed and the kid Davey, who is probably fourteen years my junior, with measured confidence beyond his year’s steps slowly up to me, a snarl on his face.
I see the brunette emerge from the dancefloor. She seems lost, looking for her friend or for me, perhaps. My shout is suddenly swallowed up by a death metal tune, blasting out from a speaker by our side. The dancefloor is turned into a mosh pit of angry young teens, with the women fleeing for cover in the wings. I shout again but this time it is caught in my throat. The blow strikes my stomach and doubles me over. They prop me up again. I get my breath back and shout louder. Davey starts laughing. He takes something out of his back pocket and stuffs it in my mouth.
“Shut up and be a good boy.” As he unbuttons his sleeve and rolls it up his arm, I try and spit out the rag in my mouth. I can taste the acrid sweat of it in my throat. Like a dirty cloth or a bandana. My bandana. Oh sh—
This story was written for the ambitious creative project, ‘The Weekly Kook’, where I release a brand new short story every week for a year, totalling…yep, you guessed it – 52 stories.
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