High Pressure Versus Soft Sell: Getting Lucky in the New Century

I was waiting at the bar for my take-out food at the Chinese place next to my apartment last night when I was lucky enough to overhear the mating ritual of a rather common species of inner-city techno-dork. I was sitting at the bar and the action was taking place at a table directly behind me. I didn’t even turn around see the parties involved. From what I heard at the table I think I can come to a fairly accurate generalization of the principal characters in this drama. “Accurate generalization’ is my own oxymoronic word coinage.

It seemed pretty obvious that the central male character in this play was a salesman of some sort. If he isn’t a salesman then he should be. Let’s call him Dave. I’m guessing Dave is still wearing a tie even though it is well after business hours. Maybe he lives in the suburbs and can’t go home and change before cocktails downtown. Although I can’t see him, I can almost hear the cell phone clipped to his belt.

Dave and one of his workmates are joined by a young woman who seems to know Dave’s friend. As soon as she sits down and is introduced to Dave, he starts to work his “charm.” In Dave’s case, his “charm” borrows directly from Gestapo interrogation tactics used against French Resistance fighters. The only thing missing is the standard, “Vee haf vays uf making you talk.” Dave grills his new acquaintance with so many questions of such a personal nature that the conversation seems more like he was interviewing someone wishing to adopt a newborn child, instead of him trying to get in a girl’s pants.

“How old are you?”
“Where do you work?”
“What do you do?”
“What do you do there, specifically?”
(He really asked this)
“How much do you weigh?”
“How much do you make?”
(He didn’t asked these questions but I wasn’t around long)

My first question to Dave would have been, “Is this a social call or are you making a sale?” Work is done for the day, Dave, time to turn off the high-pressure sales tactics. For a minute there I thought I was in the middle of a comedy sketch. The woman would say, “I was just out to get a drink after work. I wasn’t expecting the Spanish Inquisition.” And so on.

But then I got to thinking about what a fucking dipshit I am when it comes to women. My soft-sell technique hasn’t served me all that well except in keeping me out of sexual harassment law suits. Here’s how my sex life generally unfolds. I go out with a woman. Maybe we go out a bunch of times. I say good night and go home. I close the door behind me and walk into the apartment and turn on the light. I look behind me and my date is standing behind me. I shriek in terror. After I calm down I realize who it is and what it is she wants. Even then I’m not totally convinced that I’m going to get lucky.

Maybe Dave and I should hang out together sometime. He can teach me how to say to a woman I’ve never talked to before that she has pretty eyes while keeping a straight face, and I can let him know that if you wear a cell phone on your belt it just shouts to the world that you were a kid who got his lunch money taken away in high school.