Authors: Gregory Shultz
“Look, Smith, you’ve had a few vodkas—it’s just the liquor talking now. Forget your troubles tonight and let’s have a good time. Wake up tomorrow and then see how you feel about things.”
“I can’t sleep.”
“You can if you get laid.” Getting laid was Sidebottom’s solution to everything. Just like Samantha. . . .
We sat there silently for about five minutes until we each had finished off another round. After our refills were set before us, I took a good look at Sidebottom and I could tell he was about to burst at the seams. There was something he wanted to share with me. Against my better judgment, I said, “Okay, Wally, treat me to another one of your social commentaries. I’m kind of in the mood for it, actually.”
He smiled and slapped me on the back. “All right! So anyway, I was up late last night flipping around on the TV, and I came across this thirty minute infomercial about penis enlargement pills. The whole thing was a group of bimbos sitting on a huge wraparound couch, talking about how they all wished their men were bigger. The bimbos all said they were too afraid to tell their boyfriends that their cocks were too small, that they didn’t want to hurt the poor man’s feelings. But just to show that they aren’t the only ones who care about size, they cited a study that says sixty percent of all women feel just like they do. One chick even said that she fell out of love with her boyfriend for no other reason than the fact his dick was too small for her. But you know what the real kicker was about all this?”
“Tell me.”
“Each of these bimbos—and I mean
all
of them—had boob jobs. So they’re sitting around having this highly intellectual discussion on how the world would be a better place, if only all men walked around with a Marv Throneberry model Louisville Slugger baseball bat dangling between their legs. Yes sir, if the cock isn’t the length and girth of the Empire State Building, they’re out of there. It’s a deal breaker. Meanwhile, these bubble-headed bimbos are walking around with enough silicone in their tits to overflow the beaches of the Atlantic. It just illustrates the shallowness and superficial bullshit we’re up against out here in the wild.”
“What do you want to do about it?” I asked. “You wasted thirty minutes of your life watching that horse shit? Really?”
Sidebottom took a good look around. The babes had begun to assemble, which meant it was nearly time for him to spring into action.
“Dude, the point is this: Fuck ‘em! That’s what everything I’m doing right now with the art of pickup is about. I’m just out—”
“To fuck ‘em,” I said. “You truly are a misogynist. Your little rant there had me going until you revealed your true motive. You’re out for revenge against the gender that has done you wrong all your life.”
Sidebottom may have heard me, but his mind and his eyes were somewhere else. He turned to me and said, “Whoa, hold on. Here comes one of my previous sarges. I’ll get rid of her.”
In pickup parlance a
sarge
is a hot babe that is targeted for pickup, or has already been picked up.
“Hey there, honey bun,” Sidebottom said. A beautiful, petite brunette with delicate features offered him her cheek. I stood to offer her my chair. Sidebottom grabbed my arm and said, “Stay where you are. She’s just stopping by to say hi for a quick second.”
“Um, okay,” she said, turning her attention to me. “Thank you for your kindness. You are a gentleman.” She then glared at Sidebottom and said, “Don’t bother calling me again, you rude son of a bitch.” Then she walked out of the bar, and she really looked good doing it, too.
“Easy come, easy go, huh Wally?”
“She was just a one-night stand,” he said flatly. He turned back to the bar. “Bartender, another Crown and Seven. Smith, you good with yours?”
I told the bartender I was working on a fresh glass, and then I turned to Sidebottom and laid into him.
“Are you really turning into that cold of a human being? Has Samantha hooked you up with professional pickup artists? Or are they really just professional assholes instead?”
“Dude, the hussy that just stormed out of here isn’t into threesomes, so she’s out.”
“What do you mean?”
He shook his head like I was an idiot that required special translation. “Part of this program is setting personal goals. I have a certain number of sarges I want to attain, and there are things I want to experiment with. A threesome is one of my goals. If you hadn’t fucked it up for everybody that night by asking God for a favor, I definitely would have accomplished that goal by now.”
“You’ve been talking to Sam?” I was getting steamed. No one seemed capable of keeping their mouth shut, not even those sworn to do so.
“According to Sam, you appealed to a higher power,” he said, almost accusingly. After he said it, though, he backed off. He returned to the heady task of scanning for potential victims.
I decided Sidebottom wasn’t worth the fighting. He was becoming a lost cause. But at least he believed that God had intervened on my behalf last week.
“I’m going home,” I said. “I’ve had enough.”
“No!” Wally turned around and grabbed me by the shoulders. He seemed almost frantic. “I just found a target set. I need you to be my wingman.”
“I’ve got no fucking idea what that entails in your sick little world,” I said. “To hell with it. Call one of your associates to come out here and help you work it. Christ, I have enough trouble on my hands with women right now as it is. I don’t want there to even be a one percent chance I meet another one tonight.”
And then a tall Latin beauty in a tight and skimpy red dress approached us. I guessed she was in her late thirties. She had Salma Hayek tits, long slender legs, and almost no waist to speak of. I was already salivating. Sidebottom stood to make her acquaintance. But she wasn’t going for him—it was me she wanted to wrangle. She squeezed past Sidebottom’s bar stool and practically crashed into me, her enormous jugs leading the way.
“I’m Esmeralda,” she said. She was so close to me that a handshake wasn’t possible. Her lips were glossed a bright red and her scent was that of sweet, fresh, sweaty sex. But not sex with another man. No, she definitely carried the scent of another woman. I would have bet my life on it.
“Hi there, Esmeralda. My name is Smith.”
She smiled and leaned into me to whisper: “Well, Smith, my friends made a bet with me that I wouldn’t come over here and introduce myself to you.” A terrible line, quite trite in fact, but apparently still in the bimbo playbook. But she had the looks to pull it off.
Esmeralda’s scent, whatever the hell it was, was working its evil magic on me, and her dark, silky hair was long and seemingly untamed, going all over the place. Yes, she was
definitely
fresh off a romp. She began running her hands across my bare forearms, actually petting me. I could practically taste her—and the woman she’d just been with for that matter.
“Where do you live?” she asked, still exploring me with her hands. As she moved to feel my biceps and triceps, she said, “Do you live close by?”
“I hope you find the goods sufficient and to your liking,” I said. “I’m built for speed, baby.” Really, I think it was the vodka talking there.
As she turned away from me one of her hands brushed across my lap. It was quick and subtle, but she got it done. Her inspection and assessment were now complete. She’d made her decision.
“Why don’t you and your friend here come with us to Bar Charlie,” she said, referring to another one of Dusty Pond’s fine drinking establishments. She never even looked at Sidebottom, but it didn’t matter. His antennae were up. I could see it in his eyes. She pointed to her friends, a group of about ten women huddled on the other side of the bar, a fifty-fifty combination of Latin and Anglo lovelies. “We’re paying our tab and then we’re leaving. I hope to see you there.” She kissed me on the cheek, and then she was on her way.
With a look of great excitement and anticipation, Sidebottom said, “Well, we’re all over that shit, right?”
19
N
OT A SINGLE WORD from anyone’s mouth could be heard inside of Bar Charlie unless shouted into someone’s ear. It was close to eleven p.m., and the joint was rocking, pulsating, vibrating, and thumping. The music was blaring so obnoxiously loud that it felt like Keith Moon was alive and well, bashing my eardrums all to bits from within the confines of my addled skull.
Bar Charlie doubled as a sports bar and a meat market. I’d been here before to meet friends for happy hour. The hamburgers were above average, and everyone but I enjoyed watching basketball games on the big screen TV’s. But by the time they cranked up the volume and blasted out the rap music, I was usually long gone. I could see now that when the hour grew late the old folks got the hell out, and in came the pretty young maidens, dressed to impress and demanding to be seen. It was the ideal establishment for Samantha Fleming’s archetypal
hamburger eating man
to patronize. Bar Charlie satisfied most of his basic needs: decent burgers, cheap beer, televised sports, and easy pussy. The satisfying sound of a fart obviously could not have withstood the oppressive acoustical impediments.
Sidebottom and I were standing on a crowded dance floor—where nobody at all was really dancing—that fronted an elevated stage spacious enough to accommodate a full rock band. But tonight that space was instead occupied by a DJ with all the tools of his trade. The place was so packed and so loud that I knew Sidebottom’s magical methods couldn’t easily be employed. After all, to understand a pickup artist’s bullshit you have to be able to hear it.
He turned to me and jerked his thumb back toward the entrance to the back patio. We elbowed our way through the crowd and reached the outside covered bar. There were more TV’s outside, along with rows of couches and iron dining tables. It was still loud, but at least we didn’t have to scream at each other anymore to be heard.
“I wasn’t gonna say anything, but you really look like shit,” Sidebottom said to me. “You look like you haven’t slept since the nineties, and I’ve bet you lost ten pounds in the last few weeks. You okay?”
I was touched by his concern. I hadn’t seen him act human in a while. “I’m fine,” I said. “I just need to . . .” I couldn’t finish the sentence. I could barely concentrate on the simplest of conversations. I was drunk, but not so drunk that the world had begun to spin. When it starts to spin just a little bit I know I’ve gone too far. I was close to the brink, though.
A rather tall Hispanic fellow, with a smile as effervescent as I’ve ever seen on a man, approached us and shook hands with Sidebottom. The guy was about six-six and bore a striking resemblance to Ricardo Montalbán. He looked to be in his late fifties, but his slicked-back hair was dyed brown and he dressed like a man who hadn’t come to terms with his advancing years. He wore skin tight blue jeans and a dress shirt unbuttoned down to his solar plexus. Sidebottom introduced us—the man’s name was Carlos Romero. He seemed like a friendly fellow, asking me where I was from and where I worked. His Spanish accent was a bit difficult to comprehend, but for five minutes we had a pleasant conversation. And then, right at the five-minute mark, in the middle of telling me about his adult children, something had apparently caught his eye and completely diverted his attention. He was off without a word, dashing toward a pack of ladies: they were our female friends from 52 Palms, including the lovely and libidinous Esmeralda.
“What a dipshit,” I said to Sidebottom. “Does he always do that?”
Wally frowned and shrugged. “He’s a terrible wingman. Hell, dude doesn’t even know what a wingman is. In fact, it’s worse than that. He’s also a world class cock blocker. If you’re working on closing a sarge, the fucker is right there to steal her away from you. He was part of our crew for a while, but he was ostracized just for that very reason. He’s not a team player, which is funny when you think about it because he works for Disney. They’re very much into teamwork over there, ya know. No one can take a shit on Disney property without running it by a committee first. But I guess when he’s out to play he doesn’t care for that bullshit. But I will say this: he has a really hot girlfriend from Ecuador, twenty years his junior. During the week she has to stay home with her son, but that doesn’t stop Carlos Romero from hitting the bars. And you should see the guy’s Facebook page—it’s the fucking pussy hall of fame for Dusty Pond. One time he got his block knocked off by the husband of one of the hussies he connected with.”
Just then another man strolled our way. He looked Middle Eastern and had an even broader and brighter smile than good old Carlos Romero. He was about my height and had a nose that looked like a tomato. He was dressed in shirt and tie, and his short hair was dark and oily. His name was Samir: he was Sidebottom’s dentist.
“Oh my goodness,” the dentist said to me, flashing his ultra-bright white teeth. “It is so nice to finally meet you.” An overly congenial fellow, but I figured his act probably worked on most of the people he met. “Wally has told me so much about you. You’re Samantha Fleming’s boyfriend, am I right?”
“Um . . .”
“I talked to Sam just today—she came in for a cleaning. She told me all about this
wonderful
book you have written. I think you have a real winner there. Oh my goodness, what a small world. I can’t believe I’ve run into you like this.” From his shirt pocket he withdrew a business card. “You know, Smith, after you get signed up to get published you’re going to want to have the best smile possible for your jacket photo.” I guess he’d never heard of Photoshop. “And just so you know, I do a lot of dental work for a lot of rich and famous local celebrities, including more than a few published authors. Cleanings, whitenings, the whole bit. Here, open up for a minute and let me check out your white and pearlies.”