by Ray Hecht
The menu hummed along, bright lights and loud music. He pressed buttons and continued a storyline. The game was on. Fun time.
Ben abandoned his personal computer, and the two sat next to each other on the sofa. The cushions melded to their familiar weights, remembering each bone and muscle, and comfortable warmth took over as they bonded by remote.
“She found one of my profiles,” Ben suddenly said, muting his own headset. “She was mad because I still had another dating profile, while we were supposed to be together. Or, uh, something.”
“Fuck you!” Jack yelled into the microphone and the vibrating sound wave sped across the electronic ether to some anonymous avatar who had just shot his character’s shoulder in a misfired attempt to hit an approaching police officer. “Learn to aim you fuck!” Then he muted his speaker, and spoke to Ben. Still looking straight at the screen, the changing tone of his voice fully conveyed that he was now talking to his friend in the room: “Whoa. I hate when girls do that. How’d she find out?”
“Just came across it online. Maybe I left it logged on sometime. Whatever.”
“Uh-oh, a snooper. That sucks. How bad did it go? Like, did your profile say you were looking for benefits and shit?” Pause. “Fucking die! You fucking fuck!”
“I thought my profile was totally polite, if I do say so say myself. I’m not that sort. Wait. Damn! I meant to grab those chips.”
“Don’t worry about it. I got it.”
Their digital personas ran across the casino, grabbing cash and reloading artillery.
“She’d seen one of my profiles before, obviously,” Ben continued. “That’s how we met. She was mad that I didn’t delete all the accounts after we started dating. That’s the thing.”
“What the shit?” said Jack.
Unsure of whether that referred to his statement or the decapitated casino patrons on the screen, Ben spoke on. “It’s not like she deleted her own account or anything. It’s all on me. She said that she expects me to show I’m serious. Or something, um, like that.”
“To some degree, she has a point.”
“She does?!”
“Well, that depends on the rules. Deeper point being: You can’t let girls set the rules.”
“I know. So you say. So you’ve said.”
“So I say. I do know what I’m talking about. Like, you couldn’t have been going out for more than two or three weeks, right? You have to set the tone early on. You want a casual thing or what?”
“Man, I’m just looking for someone to be a cool girlfriend.”
“The last gentleman. Pat yourself on the back, my friend. See what that’s gotten you?”
“I hear ya. The truth is, she’s not it.”
“Fuck!” yelled Jack. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” That was clearly the game.
Ben didn’t say anything for a while. “So,” Jack began, shifting gears to a normal tone, “I can’t even imagine you as the kind of guy using your profile to hook up all the time. What was her deal?”
“I didn’t even log on. Not once.”
“Not even once? Like there’s anything wrong with that. Just to skim, see what you’re missing out on? There are lonely nights bro, come on.”
“Okay,” he admitted. “I may have logged on once or twice. To browse. But I didn’t email any girl. I swear I didn’t. Her whole thing was that I was supposed to delete immediately when we started dating. How was I supposed to know this whole thing was a rule?”
They both ceased talking as a particularly gruesome scene played out before them and they had to concentrate. Covered in shining red blood, they fired their semiautomatics at a rush of highly-trained SWAT officers. After they were in the clear, Ben continued: “She’s a little older than me. Is that weird?”
“How old are we talking?” he immediately asked back.
“Just a few years. Three.”
Jack did some math in his head, and said, “Women at that age... Pushing post-thirties… How shall I put this all delicately?” he rhetorically asked. “It’s like dog years. They have to rush through all the stages. A month with her must be about seven months in a normal fling. You have to multiply to get the right perspective, yo.”
“That’s an interesting point of view.”
“I got to say, I don’t recommend thirty-somethings. Not that MILFs aren’t hot.”
“Yeah. Uh, what?”
“On the other hand, barely-legal types, eighteen or nineteen, they’re so fucking stupid. Can barely talk about anything. Ben, you like smart women. Right? Of course you do.”
“Well, maybe I see what you mean.”
“It’s a cliché but it’s true; mid-twenties are the best age. If seeking a relationship or less, or whatever is you’re going for. That’s my system, anyway.”
“Jack, you are so wise. So many factoids. You should write a manual or something.”
“Come on. No way. Those pickup things never work.”
“I’m serious. Someone should record all this.”
“Ahem…” he thought about it, his ego swelling. The game froze as it saved and they moved on to another level. “Okay. I’m going to drop some knowledge bombs on ya now. You ready? Want to write it down?”
“I think I retain information best while multitasking.”
“Then let’s go.” Jack cleared his throat, and began. “First of all, bro, I don’t see why you still use those sites. I don’t recommend Arrowmatch at all. Or KChat or SeaFishing, or any of those. Allow me to school you.”
“Die, die, die!” Ben yelled, as the game began anew. Then, “What do you mean? As in, those hookup apps are preferable? I don’t know; I’m looking for something more substantial, I guess.”
“Yeah, yeah. You and finding a girlfriend. Substantial hookups or not, it doesn’t work that way. The problem with profiles is you reveal too much about yourself. Girls don’t dig that. You have to give it away slowly. Don’t ever write paragraph after paragraph of, say, your favorite bands. That whole vibe never translates. Just write like two sentences about yourself. Be mysterious. Then they can project shit on you. It’s all about the projection, man.”
“But I’ve always wanted to meet someone with similar hobbies.”
“That’s what friends are for. Trust me, girls don’t want to fuck their friends. They may think they want to, but they don’t really.”
“I really wouldn’t know.”
“I’m telling you, make the girl work at getting to know you better.”
“I’m still not sure,” Ben said, and took another swallow to give him time to ponder. “For example, what if I want to meet someone who likes the same books as me?”
“Those sci-fi and fantasy books? Yeah right.”
“I mean it.”
Jack concentrated, both on the game and on the romantic query. He intended to succeed at both.
“You fucking shit piece of shit, FUCK you!” he screamed to an accomplice who repeatedly botched the safe cracking job. After the accomplice replied with a string of juvenile obscenities, Jack tossed his headgear across the room and it landed under the adjoining kitchen table. “I can’t deal with these stupid motherfuckers,” he said to himself, and then announced: “I’m playing deaf. More attention for you, my man.” Then he made a mental note to recover the headgear before he left.
They played on. Finally, the duo stole the full ten million dollars and executed every last officer. A slight increase of several thousand dollars compared to their last heist. The game was saved, clicked off, and the two were pleased with a job well done.
“Okay,” Jack said. “Back to square one.”
“Don’t worry about me,” said Ben. “I’m a grownup. I’ll be alright.”
“Yeah whatever.”
Jack went to the refrigerator and took out two bottles of beers. He opened them, let the caps fall to the floor with a clink! and then another clink! echoed, and he passed the second bottle while simultaneously sipping his own.
“It’s like this,” he bega
n. “Pickup has to be customized. That shit with the memorized lines and catchall methods never works. Not unless you got a truly smooth system you made yourself, but you’re not ready for that. What you got to do is know what you are into, specify your type, and focus on that. Ben, ask yourself what do you want?”
“Um—”
“I know what you want. Nerd girls. Am I right?”
“Well—”
“I have good news for you. There are indeed geek girls out in the world for you. There are hot geek girls out there, all into sci-fi and computers and all your shit.”
“Don’t be facetious. You being sarcastic or what?” asked Ben. “You don’t know what it’s like out there.”
“I’m getting somewhere here. I’m serious. Patience, youngling.”
“Fine,” he conceded. “I’m listening.”
“My friend, you must learn to hedge your bets. It’s a numbers game. With Minnderrr, I can heart a hundred women a day and five or ten percent might get back to me. And those are damn solid odds. With profile sites, you have to read all their own shitty interests and write a unique email. Let me tell you, the typical copy-and-paste don’t never work never.”
“Uh-huh. I learned that the hard way.”
“As for nerd girls, they are totally there if you if seek ‘em out. But you need a better strategy. Need specifics. From what I gather, the techie-minded girls are out there but more of a challenge. Geek girls aren’t exactly that much of a big thing.”
“Come on, Jack. Haven’t you ever been to a comic con? Tons of interesting hotties out there.”
“Haven’t you been to a tech conference? From what I hear, the statistics ain’t promising.”
“Um…” Ben pieced the logic in his head, starting to get it. “The Exruption Conf I went to last year was pretty wild.”
“And did you hook up?”
“Well, I didn’t, that is, like…”
“Dude. At a techie conference, venues like that, you got ten-to-one odds. Some alpha nerd CEO type is always going to snatch up the intellectual babes. You know this; it’s a fact. The fates are not in your favor. I mean, we’ve all been up to north, right?”
“Sure. I’m going to move thereabouts soon enough.”
“So you keep saying.”
“But yeah, maybe I see what you’re getting at.”
“Hey all is not lost! Comic cons down southways indeed, bro.”
“Huh? That’s what I said.”
Jack took a long sip of beer, let the coldness fill his belly, and began. “I’m not gonna lie, I’ve been down to the big event couple of times. And I observe, that’s what I do. I observe. You got to feminize your nerdiness a bit. Don’t expect the cute ones to be into hard sci-fi like Space Squad—”
“Space Squad isn’t hard science fiction.”
“Dude. Don’t be that guy.”
“Okay, okay.”
“Where was I? Oh, yeah. Get into those fantasy dramas like Ice Realm and all.”
“I love the Ice Realm novels!” he said, excited. “I was looking at this blog today, about—“
“Up to date on the show?”
“Well, I prefer the prose. You know, in the books the difference is that the royal family dies when—”
“No spoilers! Anyway, I got to binge that shit,” he interrupted. “Those fantasy sagas are alight. Hell, get into anime. That sparkle magic girl shit. Dude, get into cosplay. Learn to sew and go to a college anime club and watch some real girly fantasy romances. That’ll get you laid with the geeky girls, guaranteed.”
“But, I mean, if they’re so nerdy anyway.”
“Listen. Boys and girls are different, know what I’m sayin? No matter the scene. Geek may be chic these days, but girls are still girls. They will always like pink unicorns and romance drama, no matter the medium. You geeks may have higher standards or whatever, but it’s all the same hormonal shit at the end of the day.”
Ben took a swig, unsure of what to say.
“And that concludes my lecture.”
“Wow.” Another swig. “You would make a real fine dating coach, Jack. You truly would.”
Jack wasn’t sure if his roommate was being sarcastic or not. He took it with a shrug of the shoulders.
They finished their beers and quietly glanced about. Ben swiveled around and tapped at his mouse and looked at his monitor. Jack decided to turn his phone back on. With that, he noticed the time. “Crap,” he calmly said. “I’m ten minutes late for my date.”
“Oh. Is that bad?”
“Whatever.”
“So,” Ben wondered, “Is she a nerdy-type girl?”
Jack trotted off to get his stuff together. “I could care less,” he said over the hallway.
“What kind of girl do you like anyhow?” Ben asked, in anxious tones. “Easy ones, I’ll bet,” he added with a fake laugh.
Jack had to stop and think about that. He scratched his forehead, careful to not intrude the gelled strands upon his scalp. “I like all kinds. Diversity, right? Yet, if I had to choose… I’d say tomboys.”
“Tomboys?”
“Yes. Tomboys are always more fun. Now that’s worth writing down. But you know, they’re still girls, and if they’re willing then I’m into it. Nothing sexier than a sure thing. Except, I guess, as for not my type the princesses are usually a mess. That’s about it, aren’t we done?”
“Oh. Sure.”
Jack tugged at his shoes, reached for his wallet.
“You are pretty late,” Ben said at last, trying to wrap up their talk in a casual manner.
“I know,” Jack answered, pocketing his mint gum and lingering at the doorway. “I don’t care.” Jack noticed Ben’s twisted brows, and decided to say just a bit more. “Okay okay, the last of the wise tidbits I shall fuckin impart to you.”
“Um, I’m all ears.”
“It’s not that bad to be a little mean to girls. Not to be a total dick or anything, but be a little bit mean. It’s like, if you are too nice off the bat there’s nowhere to go but down. If you’re a little off, it’s easy to impress after the fact. Low bar. That sort of thing. Like tonight, I’m late, but she’ll be so grateful when I profusely apologize and buy her desert and stuff. And I know it. Tonight, I’ll get a blowjob at the very least.”
“You are going to get me into some serious trouble one day.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
“I hope she’s a crazy one,” Ben said with a wave.
Jack paused in mid-exit. “What do you mean by that?” he asked, bluntly in a changed and harsher tone.
“Like, the crazy ones are really good in bed. Or something? That’s what everyone says.” Ben broke eye contact and lost his smile.
“That’s not true at all. Total myth. The crazy ones are just easy. If she’s turned on, any woman is good in bed.”
“Oh.”
“Actually, now that I think about it, it’s those shy, suppressed, nerdy ones who are really good in bed. All the budding pressuring passion exploding out, that kind of thing. The crazy ones don’t have any advantage at all. Anyway, you have the right idea already. My man, I hope you find a girl to call your own and experience it all.”
“Oh, okay.”
“I’m getting out of here. Later, bro.”
“Later, Jack.”
With that, the off-duty server slammed the door behind him, having completely forgotten about the Q-Set headgear he left under the table.
2
Andrea
She was fiddling with her hair in the restaurant’s window, as she often did when passing by her own reflection, twirling and twirling the curled, dark locks, when the Pomeranian snapped at her.
“Yip, yip, yip!”
“OMIGOD!”
Her heart went from fifty to a hundred beats in the space of several seconds. Her throat let out a shriek as her hand made an involuntary fist, pulling out several curled hairs.
“Whoa. A dog.”
Andrea’s two g
irlfriends giggled to themselves and told her to calm her shit down.
Embarrassed, she tried her best to go back to her composed, tired self.
“I’m so over this,” she said, and took out a slim cigarette from her purse.
The Pomeranian’s owners, on the other hand, didn’t react at all. The creature, delirious from heat and boredom, was stuffed in the wife’s hand bag, where the matriarch usually cajoled the animal with tender pleas of “baby, baby,” all while the husband ignored it. However, the animal was currently being ignored by the wife as well—texts messages must be checked—so it decided to bark at passersby for attention.
Its fluffy orange fur shook from side to side. Its sharp teeth gnawed at heavy leather. It eventually tired out and tucked back into the oversized handbag, suppressing the need to urinate in its own space.
It was eighteen months old, though the Pomeranian was unsure of its own age. It met its present masters as a gift one year ago as an orphaned pup, but these days it rarely reflected on things like the passage of time and such nostalgia.
The woman was forty-nine, and shaved off a whole decade when asked. Her husband, at fifty-five, was proud of his middle-age. He generally preferred women in their early twenties as sideline girlfriends, and he eyed the three girls carefully. They did not respond.
Of the three girls, two were twenty-five, one was twenty-six. They were at the age when they weren’t sure if they wanted to be younger or older, though the twenty-six year old was leaning towards wanting to be younger.
All of them hungry, they waited to be seated.
“Party of three?” the hostess asked the girls.
“Yep.”
They were ushered in, and Andrea tossed her cigarette to the curb, the smoke trailing, gravity spinning the gray mist in spirals, and it fell to the cement, grasping for delicate flame, before flickering away, as dead as the road.
Outside, Andrea and the girls heard the rumblings of an argument brewing. “I’m sorry but you can’t bring that dog in here,” the hostess pleaded.
“How dare you…”
No one looked back.
* * *
