Sean Goes

Paris all over again.

I struggle to take small breaths of heavy, stingy air.  It’s funny how even the simplest things in life you take for granted.  The musky dorm room, plastered only days ago with “rent overdue” signs, reeks of recreational drug use, overbearing men’s cologne, and artery-clogging tobacco.

The two “permanent” residents, Chris and Tim — presumably undocumented foreigners, from Germany — elected to spend their Saturday night in the chilly 9-degree Sydney weather, dressed to the tee in “stylish” male pea coats, leather jackets, scarves, and hats, among other paraphernalia, huffing and puffing with unsuspecting fellow foreigners at a nearby bar.  Every hour or so, they make an unannounced appearance, shyly attempting to skirt under my peripheral vision.  They inevitably need more joints to sustain this level of destressing from their stressful week of “cash” jobs.  Despite the countless signs forbidding recreational smoking on the premises.

It could just as well be Montreal.  The concrete buildings, masked in the monochrome, dull blues of the fading day sky, emanate a feeling of closeness.  Seemingly archaic architecture.  The low baritone voices of inebriated males’ shouting boom across the streets.  An older male, dressed in a grey jumper sweater holds a late afternoon coffee in his cold hands, looking in awe, aimlessly down at the bustling streets of Kings Cross from the comfort of his living room.  Tens of restaurants, food outlets, and convenience stores line the streets surrounding the station entrance, adorned with red heaters perched above the sidewalk, glowing as the smoke billows off the plastic awnings from smoking foreigners.

I haven’t washed my clothes for days.  My dusty sets of clothes, now covered in whatever espestice-ridden solution clotting the ventilation systems, lie sprawled on the floor.  Silently, amongst the clatter of pompous motorbikes competing for road attention through the open windows, I concede to myself that I won’t be washing my clothes for another 2 weeks.  How do backpackers survive on only 2 pairs of clothes?

My breath wheezes.  It doesn’t help that above me, a clogged ventilation shaft silently hisses fungal-ridden fumes on my face.

The cool weather seems to alienate me, though, as I lie helplessly in the smoky, confined room.  Didn’t I leave Canada to get away from this cold weather?  It’s still midday, and I have no plans; my Saturday is my rest day.  So I fall headfirst back into the hands of my best friend — my phone — reading, in what most would classify as a love-hate relationship, the most controversial book I’ve ever read.

This past Friday night out with my newfound friend and wing-man Harley, heralded a new era of self-confidence in my game.  Meaningless tactics, adopted shamelessly from pick-up artists in a self-help novel titled “the Game”, produced results.  A 4-set consisting of 2 blondes, and 2 dark-haired Colombians.  It was time to shine.  I approached them confidently like I was their best friend, smiling and asking how they knew each other.  My new wing, Harley, began to chat to the blond.  Alone, I had game, but together, it was like clockwork: a carefully-arranged, coordinated swindling on the group, effortlessly pawning off the other two dark-haired Colombians.  I performed a variation on an outdated technique called “negs”, calling her out for not being adventurous.  It was a classic.

As we both worked on the short blonde, I began cold reading her: “you’re clearly the sophisticated kind of person”, rubbing her earrings gently.  Harley seemed to quiet down, as he watched me.  Yet it only seemed to make me more eager to close her; unfairly dubbed a “game”, competition was at its core.  “You’re clearly a classy woman; you dress nicely, have a boastful stature that says you’re a professional.”  I had already isolated her friends, now directly positioned in front of her.  “Where are you from?”, she asked eagerly, curling her smile, cocking her head to the side.  Harley watched on the side.  She was hooked.

I was shocked.  On my own, cold approaching women was never my strong suit… until I realized I do have plenty of experience.  It all happened over the course of a week.  All those days, working in grocery stores, selling products to innocent passerby; all those endless hours of greeting customers.  My self-professed love for the professional world was doing a backflip, and I had to land on my feet, or I wouldn’t be ready for the next act.  The spotlight was on.

By now, her friends had left.  We continued “fluffing” her, only periodically giving away information about ourselves.  At this point, it was clear she was interested in me, as Harley stood, partially inept at the sight of my night game; she didn’t even care about the fact that her friends had left her.  It was just me and my wing, the spotlight on me.  Somehow, I knew exactly what to say.  I took initiative, negging her on her sneakers, reeling back in with my signature closer.  I pulled her closer: “but you know what I love most about you…?”, I gestured for her to get closer to me, as if I had a secret.  She complied, as I slipped my arm around her back.  I slowly whispered in her ear that she was better than the others because she didn’t need makeup to feel good about herself.”  And it was true; in that moment, though chastising myself for my indecency, and shallow insincerity, I had shown a piece of the real me.  Make no mistake: pick-up artists are illusion artists; they take the vision you have of that “perfect” soulmate, and project it on ourselves.  And this blond was no exception, her eyes now beaming selflessly at me.  It was time to close.

I instantly thought of the ESP, palm-reading techniques advertised so blatantly in the book.  That wasn’t me, I reasoned.  I can do better.  I was also losing focus; pick-up artists know that every second you spend getting a girl to fall for you, the opposite can happen if you don’t keep playing; if you don’t keep their attention, some other person will take over.  My energy was waning, though; I had only just started my journey.  I needed to recharge.   “Let me show you something”, I gestured to a the side tables, grabbing her by her arm.  She seemed to want this more than I did.

We sat, this time alone, as I shimmied up my chair in front of hers, at an angle of course.  I began a variation of the ESP technique, a breathing exercise I made up on the spot, eyes closed.  I found myself holding her hands, breathing in unison with me.  It was strangely beautiful in a way.  “Take all that noise, channel it inward, and focus on me.”  Her red composure seemed to indicate she was flustered.  “But it’s so noisy!”, she croned.  “That’s the point”, I calmly retorted.

We continued the exercise, me using my biggest strength to my advantage: words.

“All these moments in our lives, all our experiences — they have led up to this moment.”  It was classic yoga instructor, hippie shit.  Classic fairytale “destiny” lines.  But it was working like a charm.

We paused, engaged in each other’s presence, now seemingly isolated from the world.

“I’ve worked at top security software companies.  I’ve travelled the world for the past two and a half years,” I slowly enunciated, remembering to channel the “inner zen” or whatever cultist synonym yogi instructors used.

“I’ve been to southeast Asia,
Taiwan,
Mexico,
Cuba,
Europe,
Africa…”

Her eyes lit up in admiration with each country or continent I listed in a slowing rhythm.  I was building status, value.

She was gazing profusely at me.  I was ready to kiss-close.

There was only one problem: I didn’t find her attractive.

I just wasn’t feeling this.  It wasn’t me.  Women aren’t trophies, prizes, or gold rings you wear on your fingers.  I gazed into her eyes, one last time, and got up slowly, saying I needed to make sure Harley was ok.  It wasn’t enough; she really wanted more.  Did these techniques really work this well?  I couldn’t bear another lie; it just wasn’t fair to her.  “I really appreciate getting to know you on a deeper level… but I want to understand other people as well, to understand what motivates people on a lower level.”  That was the best I could do: somewhere between a lie and the truth.  And it was true enough.

Thereafter, I lost my game.  Once the music kicked in, and everyone started dancing, I found myself shouting.  My words were getting replaced by songs.  I kept imagining the enticed, beady eyes of the blond, seduced by some image of what she wanted me to be.  I didn’t enjoy this alone anyway.  I needed to find Harley.