by Dermot Davis
“Then why are you taking pictures of all these strange couples you don’t even know?” asks Gloria, who obviously, totally doesn’t get it. However, I am in no mood to educate her into the art and sophistication of modern thematic photography.
“I need to make a phone call,” I say, excusing myself to get some privacy and enjoy some personal space in my bedroom.
“We’re leaving in like, twenty minutes,” Mike calls after me, and by his tone, I know that he is letting me know that he is not going to accept any lame excuses from me for crying off the mid-week karaoke crunch at Frankey’s. Maybe I will meet someone special, who knows? So, I go change.
As far as sports bars go, Frankey’s isn’t the worst. Let me rephrase that: I don’t like sports bars, in general, but mid-week, Frankey’s loses the whole sports bar feel and does a fair job of passing itself off as a cozy neighborhood, hipster bar with softer lights and what sounds like eighties music. It’s probably an attempt to attract the ladies, which, judging by the numbers in here tonight, they’ve succeeded. The karaoke hasn’t started yet, thank heavens; I guess people haven’t drunk enough yet.
As for meeting someone amazing? Not going to happen. Why? I don’t want to be mean and single out Gloria but let’s just say that now that she has become a member of the team, well, the dynamic has shifted, if you know what I mean. Instead of being two hunter-gatherer males on the prowl, the three of us sit at a table, off to the side; me, playing the gooseberry to a horny couple that can’t keep their hands off of each other (and have no interest in mingling with anybody new, period). The only women I’m going to meet here are the ones who mistake the men’s restroom for the ladies’ when I’m taking a piss. And how often does that happen?
When me and Mike used to hang out here, you’d never catch us coming midweek for any of the hokey bullshit theme nights: karaoke crush, the open mic comedy/rap/poetry slam, Brazilian night, Coyote Ugly Tuesday, Fear Factor Wednesday or the sports trivia quiz bullshit with complimentary and half-price appetizers.
We’d come on weekend nights when the bar was full of serious drinkers and hardcore partiers who wouldn’t be caught dead at a mid-week poetry anything. We’d wear our best and most expensive, coolest shit…and we’d mean business. We’d sit at the bar because every guy worth his salt knows that bar seats are the best seats in the house for spotting and attracting talent. And attract them, we would. Okay, so most of the babes only came to the bar to order a drink but we could slip in a few zingers and one-liners while they waited to get served (what’s a hot chick like you…, etc.). Most nights, we killed.
“See anyone you like, Martin?” Gloria asks, scanning the bar.
“Not yet, Gloria. I’ll let you know,” I coolly respond.
“There’s a hottie,” spies Mike.
“The one with the weird hair?” asks Gloria, tracking his sight line. “You think she’s cute?”
“Sure,” answers Mike, now sounding uncertain so as not to incur her wrath.
“She doesn’t have any boobs and her ass is too fat,” comments Gloria with a distinct whiff of ‘how dare you think that someone else in this bar is as cute as I am.’ “Do you think she’s cute, Martin?”
“Yep. Cute as a button,” I answer, bored already but not afraid to stick it to her.
“Go ask her to dance,” suggests Gloria.
No one is dancing and I think they’re playing David Bowie’s, ‘Ground Control to Major Tom:’ good luck dancing to that weird little musical oddity.
“No one is dancing, Gloria,” Mike says, stating the obvious, but not adding a duh, which I totally would have.
“I don’t hear you offering any great suggestions,” says Gloria, turning her attention back to Mike.
“Maybe he doesn’t need any help.”
“He’s just sitting there. Who’s going to come over and talk to him?”
“No one’s going to coming over and talk to him. It doesn’t work like that,” says Mike and only I can hear the sigh of frustration in his voice.
“Yeah, so he needs to get someone up to dance or something,” she responds, undefeated.
Okay, so this is getting weird. Don’t they care that I’m still here? Are they going to start arguing about who has the best mission impossible strategy for hooking me up with someone cute, as if I even need their help?
“Look,” I say, hoping to end the madness, “I came here to have a drink with you two but somehow it’s turning into some kind of weird game show where I’m the only contestant. Do you mind?”
“Fine. Stay miserable,” says Gloria, sounding miffed.
“Stay miserable?” I ask. Where exactly is she coming from?
“You’re love sick and broody,” she says, like a doctor giving a diagnosis. Love sick? Seriously? And who the heck uses the word ‘broody’ anymore: her Amish grandmother? But still, she goes on: “People who don’t get touched on a regular basis are depressed and are more likely to die of cancer and stuff. It was on TV.”
Oh, boy. When does the karaoke start?
“I can’t remember the last time you had sex,” she says and then turns to Mike and asks him. “Do you?”
Okay, out of respect to my long-standing friendship to my BFF, Mike, I’m not going to get into it with Gloria. No matter how big a pain in the ass she’s being, I’ve seen too many situations in the past where girlfriends totally messed up best bud friendships. I’m not saying it’s a conscious thing on their part but I’m not taking the bait and going down that dark road.
I don’t want to lose Mike over some dumb-ass bimbo who’s merely passing through, so I say nothing and just kinda look at Mike with a subtle, WTF, plea-full expression. I don’t know what he’s thinking and maybe he doesn’t want to blow his chance of getting laid tonight but for some reason, he ends up taking Gloria’s side.
“You were different when you were with Roxanne, Marty,” he says, as if he were some kind of objective observer, sharing his neutral opinion.
“I’ll be right back,” I say matter-of-factly, getting up, like it is the most normal and optimal timing to go to the bathroom. I am so pissed, I don’t care to take in their reactions as I leap up.
I don’t why Mike had to bring up Roxanne’s name like that, and especially in front of Gloria. He has barely mentioned her until now and that was only when we were having a beer together, in some dive bar, where nothing else was going on: no babes to be seen and no sports on TV. And even then, he said her name in a tentative way, as if he was testing the waters to see how I would react; either get depressed and clam up for the rest of the evening or go off on her like I hated her guts; spilling venom all over the place. When I got quiet and switched the topic to something else, he got the message and dropped the subject.
It’s such a cliché, having a broken heart. I hate it. Just the mention of her name makes me feel like shit. Worse still, I know the only way to forget her is to fall in love with someone else. Then I’ll magically forget about Roxanne. Until the new one breaks my heart and I’m back to where I started. Only the name will have changed. It’ll then be Kimberly or something. Maybe the trick is to fall in love with someone new and try to hang on to her long enough until I’m too old to give a shit. But then again, maybe the Buddha was right: pain and suffering are the only true constants in life.
2. The Come On
“Make sure we see lots of meat, okay? I want you to make those buns look really tasty. I should want to sink my teeth into those buns…like I couldn’t help myself. You got it?”
“Gotcha,” I respond, as the director of the photo shoot tells me how I need to capture the subjects in front of us. We’re trapped in a really hot and stuffy studio in the valley. Sweating, I adjust my lens and move closer to find the best angles and most favorable lighting.
“Okay, baby, give me all you’ve got,” I say in my slickest-tongue-of-the-West voice. “That’s it, sweetheart, give it to me, there you go. Lots of meat, that’s it, don’t be shy, baby, no holding back… sexy buns,
give it to me, let’s see those sexy buns.” I give my best impression of a top fashion photographer. I look around at the small crew to see who, if anybody, finds me amusing (preferably a cute chick). Which they honestly should, because I’m talking to and taking photos of a plate of cheeseburger and fries. I’m taking shots for a fast food chain: a small chain new to L.A.
I do catch one crew guy (probably just a day player) expend a hint of energy on a faint smile but the rest of the gang are professionals who don’t have a sense of humor at work and most likely consider such antics to be juvenile and amateurish.
Some gigs can be a long drawn out bore but they don’t have to be if only some people would lighten up. Not today, I realize. Looking serious and intent upon impressing whoever hired them for the shoot (most crew are just hired for the duration of a project and then have to look for another job), they ignore me. I don’t blame them for trying to appear like all that they want to do is work. Freelancers depend upon repeat gigs and word-of-mouth.
I take it in my stride and frame another shot. There’s an art to taking pictures of food; it’s not all just point and click. The food must be prepared in a special way; maybe some extra food coloring is added and they definitely spray the fries with some concoction that makes them look like they just came from the fryer. I asked one of the prop guys once what they put in the spray and stuff. All he would say is that it’s a trade secret.
The first time I shot food was three years ago and it was for the same people. I was actually pretty proud of my work, especially when I stood in line for lunch at one of their outlets and looked up and saw of all my photos on the brightly lit menu display. They really looked neat.
I actually turned to a cute blonde standing in line behind me and part pride, part come on, I told her that I had taken all of the photographs. She looked at me like I was crazy (crazy that I took them or crazy that I admitted to taking them, I don’t know). Without saying a single word or even making some noise in her throat as an acknowledgment, she looked straight past me as if I didn’t exist. Embarrassed and feeling humiliated, I similarly pretended that I hadn’t spoken but truthfully? that stung. To rub it in, some wise ass behind her (I didn’t see him wink to his friend but I’m pretty sure he did) clipped my shoulder to get my attention and then with a serious expression on his face said, “I love your work, man.” A-hole.
But you know what? I do love my work. I do take pride in capturing the subject at its best and making the client happy, giving them what they want (most of my work projects, like this gig, are from repeat clients). Whether it is food or babies or a secluded, semi-detached house in the suburbs, to me, this work is a perfect combination of art and commerce. I do what I love and it pays the bills.
Ever since I got here, I’ve been checking out this hot chick, Sandy, I heard one of the crew guys call her name. I’ve been looking for an opening to make some small talk but she’s been working non-stop, multi-tasking like crazy: setting up a conveyer supply of food plate combinations, spraying the food that’s been lying around too long, even setting up and adjusting some of the lighting. “We’re done with number fifteen, bacon cheeseburger with curly fries,” she yells to a young crew guy, who logs it.
Working freelance is cool, I like it, but it means that you don’t get to see the same people on a continual basis; it’s mostly interacting with new folks for a few hours and then it’s on to something or someplace else. So, if you see someone you like, you had better act fast. The problem with acting fast is that they don’t know me or have time to get my dry sense of humor, so to someone who doesn’t pick up on irony, I risk coming off looking like a total moron. As we pack up, I finally get to say something to Sandy. “Long day, huh?”
“I’m used to long days,” says Sandy, not breaking stride as she packs up some gear.
“Want to grab a bite?” I ask, with my best mischievous twinkle of the eyes. “I know this great little burger joint just around the corner. My treat.”
I have found, through experience, that if you’re going to ask a girl out on a date and if she’s hot and maybe a level or two out of your league, you ask them out in a jokey fashion. That way, if they are truly interested, they can say, “Yeah, sure.” If they reject you, you then tell them that you were joking. Then they “get it” and smile, maybe loosen up a bit and you can actually come out of it looking kinda cool and interesting.
“Are you serious? We’ve been spraying burger shit all day. I don’t think I’ll ever eat a burger for the rest of my life,” Sandy says, as if I have just insulted her deeply.
“No, I’m not being serious,” I say in my best jokey voice. “It was a joke. Go to a burger joint, after this? Seriously.”
“Then, why did you ask?” says Sandy, looking at me like I’m an idiot. As if she is not even remotely interested in hearing any more of my clever retorts, she picks up a heavy tripod and carries it out of the studio: game over.
So, I’m back in the park and it’s a couple of hours shy of sunset. There are a few courting couples around but they’re not acting particularly romantic towards each other; the coming splendiferous sunset has yet to work its amorous magic.
A few single women pass me by and I give them each a hopeful smile but instead of a tentative smile of acknowledgement, they mostly act as if they are mentally wondering whether their mace spray is in their purse or they left it back in their car. At least, that’s what their expressions look like to me. I guess it’s hard being a single gal. With all the come-ons they get, I’m sure they wonder to themselves if guys think that walking, or being out alone, is an open invitation to every single male out there to hit on her: Hey, dudes, I’m outside and I’m alone so go ahead, slugger, give me your best shot.
I sympathize, I do, but, seriously, how does a single guy meet a woman if he doesn’t actually meet the female of the species? There’s a cute woman right now, sitting on a bench, reading a book. How would I ever meet her? At work? It’s three o’clock on a Friday afternoon: does she even have a job? She could be an actress or have any other of myriad L.A. jobs where people never seem to work but they still have the time and the funds to hang out at coffee shops at all times of the day and night.
Maybe I could meet her at her gym (every hot looking man and woman in L.A. belongs to a fitness center) but if she is a gym member, I’d lay odds she belongs to Curves or some other ladies-only gym where women can work out without being hit on by guys like me. I don’t live in her apartment block; I don’t hang out with my laptop at her closest Starbucks where she most likely picks up her half milk, half soy, skinny decaf latte with a sprinkle of cinnamon every morning. So, how would I freakin’ meet her in a natural, cute-meet, just like in the movies, kinda way? Stop her in the street? Impossible.
But then again, that’s how my dad claimed that he met my mother. He had been drinking at the time and he was getting all maudlin’ and starting to talk atypically tough. Maybe in his head, he was imagining he was Gary Cooper or Clark Gable or someone similar (he used to watch all their movies).
“It was on a park bench. That’s where she was sitting, all alone. She was the most beautiful woman that I had ever seen. What was I going to do? Keep on walking? And forever regret the day that I didn’t have the nerve to say something to the most beautiful girl in the world? What was the worst that could have happened? She could have ignored me.” Then he gave what I can only describe as a mischievous, movie star smile (which I’d never seen before or since) and added: “But she didn’t.”
Okay, dad, you’re probably looking down on me right now and encouraging me with that very same smile, urging me to give it a go. And I will.
But not yet. First thing I need to do is reconnoiter and decide on the ideal position from which to casually interact. Then I need to work up some courage.
I manage to make it to the railing overlooking the cliff, just a few feet away from where the cute girl with the book sits, oblivious to my plotting. Now all I have to do is sit beside her and engage her i
n small talk. Of course, I need to look and act as naturally and nonchalantly as I possibly can, which isn’t easy when I’m this scared. Us guys don’t like to talk about it but I’ve yet to meet a guy that is not secretly terrified of the cold “come on.”
The cold come on is worse than the regular, more commonly experienced come on. The common come on is where you hit on someone that you know or at the very least have seen before. There’s some kind of mutual recognition: maybe it’s someone you fancy that works at Starbucks and has come to secretly name you, “Super Big Tipper,” in which case, you’ve broken the ice and a come on is expected. Even if the fancied is in a relationship, she may still feel aggrieved or less desirable, in general, if you don’t at least try to hit on her.
Another easier (and equally expected) come on is to approach the chick with whom you have been eye-flirting with in a bar. (Just make sure that it is actually you and not your better-looking buddy that she has been directing her come-hither looks toward. Sadly, that has happened to me a few times and although it has usually worked out for Mike and the oh-so flirty one, the best I got out of it was a pat on the head for making the introductions. An atta boy head pat never manages to soothe the embarrassment and humiliation, trust me).
No, the cold come on is a killer: you don’t have a history, there’s no one to introduce you; you didn’t get the all clear to approach with her eyes: you’re going in cold. And no pressure, but you’ve only got one chance - just one line - to break through her defenses.
Admittedly, the majority of guys never use the come on; this is root canal surgery to most males. Those brave enough to enter the fray of the cold come on, usually have only one line. Through trial and error over the years, they’ve honed and perfected their pickup line until it has a greater than fifty percent chance of success. Then they’ll use it, again and again.
Come on lines are harder than you think, 'coz let’s face it, they all sound corny: “What’s a nice girl like you..?”, “Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”, “What’s that you’re drinking?” etc. I’ve noticed lately that many guys have rejected the really smart ones, the ones that you have to think about or the more obvious pick up lines, like: “If a thousand painters worked for a thousand years, they could not create a work of art as beautiful as you,” or “I'm not drunk, I'm just intoxicated by you” (I learned the hard way that this one only works in a bar).
