My seventeen-year-old son, Brett, scans the menu as I survey the surroundings from our table in the bar. It’s the last table in a jam-packed room. The band is tuning up in the corner. A short stocky man wearing tight black pants and a black silk shirt with printed white palm trees swaggers across the empty dance floor, a crooked grin on his face. His white Fedora is tilted at a rakish angle. I see his prey, a table of middle-aged ladies sitting in a balcony area. They wave and his smile goes coast to coast. I’m wondering why he’s so cocky. He’s got fancy clothes, but on him they still look like rummage sale rejects. Maybe the old adage that women are attracted to character is true after all. I’m thinking he’s more a character than having it.
Brett interrupts my thoughts. “How come there are so many women here?”
I thought it was obvious. “It’s a pickup bar,“ I answer.
“A pickup bar?” he repeats with indignation. The thought of middle aged and older men and women hustling each other is, obviously, repugnant to him. The restaurants name, Tavern on the Bridge matches its guests affluence and upscale decor. Monogrammed shirts and expensive perfume abound. A mature waitress in a fancy cocktail dress and over done make-up finally arrives. She has a soothing Southern voice. When she calls me “honey,” it sounds sincere. I order a salad, Brett a steak sandwich. She points to my empty beer bottle. I nod.
“Is that your second or third?” Brett asks, not bothering to camouflage his annoyance.
Somehow our roles have reversed. Sounds like my mother. I lie and tell him it’s my second. Another group of ladies walk in, hesitate, then make their way to the back. Not a smile in the whole bunch. Let’s face it. This man-woman thing is deadly serious business. Brett frowns. I know he’s thinking, “ It’s impolite to stare.” Come to think of it, my Mom wasn’t this tough. I can’t help staring. The dynamics are so interesting. More real then those staged TV reality shows and the stakes are much higher. You’ll either be deliciously nuzzling flesh in a few hours or nursing your tattered ego watching late night reruns wondering where it all went wrong. Make no mistake, this is a real drama unfolding before our eyes.
There should be a secret book of rules for older guys to bone up how to pick up women before they put their souls on the line.
Rule one: look cool, confident. Like you’re really here for the food. No anxious glancing around as you white-knuckle your drink. One hint of insecurity, and you’re toast. Go directly to the Calcutta black hole square, that would be the cookies and tea Christian Socials on Wednesday nights, and do not collect so much as a kiss on the cheek.
Rule two, forget clever pick up lines. Women can detect smoke better then Cochise on his best days. “Can I buy you a drink?”, “Haven’t we met before?” or “What’s your sign?” automatically banishes you to a lifetime of Friday nights at the Ugly Mug Pub with the Renegade Biker Club chugging beer, flexing your tattoos. Being sincere is probably the best bet since it’s long been established that women can not only read body language ten times better then men and even know what you’re thinking sometimes. Got personal proof of the last one. Not mentioning any names, but let’s say she’s around a lot.
Rule three, don’t muscle in on women’s space. They band together in groups for confidence. Take them out for short spells like a dance, butt always bring them back to their fuzzy secure place. It’s tribal. I know you’re in a bravado solo mode, but then, men like to hunt alone.
Finally, never forget that humor is your most powerful weapon. Have you ever noticed when you ask beautiful women what they see in the little sawed off dufus with zits all over their faces they always give you the same answer? “He makes me laugh.” So, if you’re projecting serious tight around the lips vibes you can fold up your game board and slink off into loser land. Games over, adios, sayonara. You are H I S T O R Y.
A stunning blonde in a tight black sheath walks in, studies the situation, and strolls to the last empty chair at the bar and claims it like it has her name’s stenciled on it. There’s confidence in her every move, unlike her jittery sisters. You know the pearl necklace resting on her ample bosom is genuine, not to mention the bosom. I notice all the other guys are staring, too. Fantasizing’s a better word. You can almost hear the hormones churning, even in this rusty crowd. The guy on her right wastes no time. Shoots her a one liner. She smiles politely. Encouraged, he leans in. One of those power executive types. I can tell he’s really giving it his boardroom best. A few seconds ago he was a candidate for Prozac. Now he’s Mr. Personality on speed. Lot’s of gesturing and laughing. I look closely and notice little beads of perspiration on his forehead. Let’s face it, this is work. He finally takes a breath and she actually gets a word in. His face glows. He thinks he’s hit the mother lode.
The waitress plops a big prime rib sandwich in front of Brett. He seems oblivious to the sexual drama developing around him. Once, when he was thirteen, he confided a secret to me as we waited in a Taco Bell drive-through. He had a crush on a girl and wanted some advice from me, being so much older and experienced with women and all. I scrunched up my wise face not wanting to let on that I was also probably clueless. “I did something”, he said, “and I’m not sure it was the right thing.” I was hoping this wasn’t going to be one of those wisdom of Solomon things. “I wanted to kiss this girl, so I went up to her and asked, ‘I like you. Is it okay if I kiss you?’”?Hmmm! Interesting approach. Ask them first and confuse them. “What’d she say?” I really wanted to know. “She said, ‘I guess it’s all right’, so I kissed her…on the lips.” Brett looked at me intently. “Was that okay?” he asked anxiously. Even I could handle that nerf ball. “The fact that she didn’t upper cut you into the cheap seats tells me it was okay. And it was sweet that you asked. But don’t ever do that again. It might start a whole new trend.” I hoped he wasn’t going to quiz me about the current show in progress. This is the big leagues and much more complicated.
A rock and roll sonic boom blasts through the room. An oldie, something about “…but will you love me tomorrow?”, appropriately enough. Now, this is where things crank up. Everyone’s had a few pops to loosen up. Time to get the game in play. Adjust your fanny one last time, curl those lips, flash the pearly whites and blink your eyes three times, real fast. There, now you’re ready. A white bushy-haired gentleman with a neatly trimmed white mustache and white embroidered shirt gets up, tugs at his pants, takes one last hurried gulp from his bottle, turns and zeroes in on his target. Not unlike peering out of your fox hole before the battle charge. Same level of fear. He begins the long walk. The drama is not lost on the rest of the men around fondling their drinks who follow his every step with evident curiosity. They all know that walk well. I mentally rate his chances. Mid-fifties, strong face. Like a Southern plantation owner walking his grounds, only a cigarette instead of a cigar.
Points off for that. After an eternity he reaches his destination, the prettiest lady in a table of six. She’s sitting sideways from the table with her long shapely legs crossed, a sandal dangling precariously from her toes. A subliminal hint maybe that she’s dying to get undressed? He leans over and whispers into her ear. She turns and gives him a thorough once-over, cocking one eyebrow for a better focus. All in slow motion. Hell, the band might as well roll the drums. He looks kind of grim, like he just got bad news from his doctor. No points off for that. He’s only human. She finally slides off of her high chair and makes her way to the dance floor. As if on command, other gambling men repeat the ritual. The ample bodied one with the Fedora gyrates flamboyantly with two ladies in the center of the floor. He has one hand on his swiveling hip and the other pointed at the ceiling. He’s laughing and making funny faces. He’s either a good actor or has a mother who really loves him.
The thought enters my mind that there’s a hint of desperation in this whole mating ritual. Like all their bad luck and/or misjudgments have come to roost in this little corner of the world here and now. And that loneliness is the one thing they all have in common and that they’re only enduring this excruciating charade on the long long odds of connecting with someone. Like drawing a card to a flush. Perhaps, dare they think it, even finding a soul mate who will provide something deeper and longer-lasting. And since they are mature people, they are probably casualties of divorce or widowed, which makes it even more poignant. On the other hand, maybe I’m putting too much into it, or even feeling just a little superior. Easy to be smugly philosophical, when my ass isn’t on the line.
Brett comments, almost to himself, “Dad. There’s something sad about this whole thing. Aren’t they too old for this?” Maybe my son has a little of me in him, after all. “There’s no deadline on hope”, I mutter back.
I notice the elegant lady in black from the bar is dancing with Mr. CEO. He says something, she leans her head back and lets out a deep throated laugh of pure joy. I wish I had a camera to catch the sublime moment. He grins back, pleased. They’re both having a good time. You know, every once in awhile if you go for it, maybe you can beat Jimmy the Greek odds. I throw some cash into the little leather folder left by the waitress and signal Brett it’s time to go. The music stops. The Fedora man winds his way toward us, his shirt tail out, sweating profusely. He’s still smiling as he draws closer, but his eyes are devoid of any real pleasure. On second thought, in the end, finding that meaningful other person in this jungle is more like drawing a card to an inside straight.