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The Great American
Pick Up
by
Diana Grove
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I was sitting alone at the bar when he careened toward me in slow motion, his shiny head skin glistening in the Michelob lights.
As he slid his hand up my back, I stiffened. Not just because he was teetering dangerously close to a pyramid of highball glasses, or because he was invading my personal space with his soft, fruity girl hands, but because he was just about the largest walking penis I had ever seen.
He introduced himself as Martin Freeling, six feet tall with a perfectly shaved head and all the social skills of wet laundry.
I must say, at first I was terrified by his advances, but after speaking to him for a few minutes, I was just annoyed. Really, for a six-foot tall penis he wasn’t altogether bad looking, but he smelled like camphor and his insect eyebrows clashed with his vacant scalp. And somehow, like all walking penii, his cranium included a slight point on top with a little roll of flesh near the neck region, and, you guessed it, he had skull sweat. (Here’s something: if you’re a Caucasian male and you decide to shave your head, refrain from wearing a turtle neck, it just ends up looking like foreskin.)
He leaned in toward me, his caterpillar eyebrows commingling in an orgy of bristles. “Hi there,” he said, jutting forward, nearly knocking me off my stool. “Would you like to play a game of pool?”
“Jesus buddy, what are you trying to do, take me out early with a head wound?” I regained my balance and straightened myself.
“Look,” I said, “I don’t play pool or any games that involve felt for that matter, and I despise rules, so you might as well forget about that rollicking game of whist, too.”
He rubbed his forehead looking confused.
“I mean it,” I said. “You’re just gonna have to go find someone else to play with. I’m sorry, if I could say fuck off any more politely I would.”
Somehow, this didn’t seem to deter him.
He slid his hand around my back and sat on the stool next to mine. “Oh come on, you don’t play pool? You could at least try, right?”
“Look, I already told you, I can’t deal with rules.” I swung around to face him. “Now if you want to saw up the pool cues and reattach them with wood glue into some kind of geodesic dome, then arrange the balls into a multi-colored Indian peace symbol, well, maybe I’ll do that. But only if the dome is structurally sound and the peace symbol is historically accurate.”
This made him sigh and sink his head down on his fists, rocking it back and forth.
“Ohhhhh….you’re making me nervous. I just wanted to come over here and…ya’ know…talk to you. I just want to find someone…nice.”
Feeling a surprising wash of sympathy, I softened up. Mostly because his erect penile appearance was beginning to take on a kind of sad, shaved puppy look.
“Jeez Martin, it’s not that bad. I’m just trying to engage you in some interesting conversation. Look, we can talk about anything you want, like, poisonous mushrooms, Polish square dancing or even rare breed dogs. I mean, did you know the Siberian Long-haired Weasel Hound is so high-strung you can only feed them fresh doe meat and artesian spring water?”
Again, Martin lifted his head and pointed his Frieda Kahlo uni-brow at me. “Ohhhhhhh, you’re just making that up.” He sat silently glum for a moment, then abruptly shifted on his stool, almost falling off. “Hey, ‘ya know what, you’re really different. What do you do anyway?”
“What do I do?” I said. “What do you think I do? I hang out in sports bars and reminisce about the Negro Leagues. What do you do?”
He smiled, then hung his head and sighed. “Oh, I’m a sales rep for Acura in Des Moines. Boring, huh?”
I looked at him skeptically. “Sales rep for Acura? Are you sure a position like that really exists? I mean, don’t those cars sell themselves? Don’t the titanium axle nuts and the super-oxygenated airbags and all the triple-sprung crankshafts pretty much knock out all of the competition?”
I could tell he was trying to think of a response, but instead he just stared at me.
“Face it Martin, you’re lying. You’re not a sales rep for Acura at all. You’re really a pool shark and you’re trying to rob me of my inheritance money. You knew my grandmother was the Tuskegee Pancake Baroness all along, didn’t you?”
“No, no, no, I’m not a pool shark and I don’t know anything about the pancakes, I swear. I really do work for Acura…really.” Still drunk, he swung around and put his hand on my arm, nearly knocking over my beer.
“Hey, let’s forget about all of that for a minute, can I ask you a personal question?”
“Okay Martin, now I’m saying this as a friend, if you don’t stop touching me I’m gonna kick you so hard in the nuts you’ll hear squirrels sing.”
He quickly pulled his hand away. “Okay, okay, okay, but can I ask you a question?”
“Oh Jesus, if you have to. Does it by any chance involve the Flemish Short-tailed Bull Dog? Because if it does, I know for a fact their nasal cavities are truncated, making it very difficult for them to breath in the summer months.”
“No, no, it’s not about dogs.” Martin sucked in his alcohol breath then leaned in closer, exhaling. “Um…do you like to…cuddle?”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I whipped around and threw up my arms. “Oh for Christ’s sake Martin, of all the questions to ask a woman at a bar! Do I like to cuddle? I’m a girl aren’t I? Of course I like to cuddle! I like kittens, I like ice cream, I like lace curtains, I like movies that take place in 19th century England…and I like to cuddle! Jesus fucking Christ, you have got to learn to grow some nuts. Ask me if I like to be tied up and ass-fucked in a rubber jump suit, or if I’m into whipped cream…but not ‘do I like to cuddle’.”
Martin pulled at his neck foreskin and put his hands over his face, groaning. “Ohhhhhhhh, I’m sorry. You have to understand, I just want to…to…to find someone nice I can…you know…be with. And I like you. I just want to meet someone nice.”
I looked him directly in the face. “Look Martin, first of all, I’m not nice. Second, I’m married, and even if I weren’t, you wouldn’t stand a chance with that attitude. You’ve got to get a grip on yourself. You’re never going to find someone if you don’t buck up and show a little self respect.” This made him look even more miserable, kind of like a cross between a Braunsweiger and a Bavarian Earless Dachshund.
It seemed that everyone was against him now, including me. I had never seen anyone so pathetic. I tried to remember myself when I was alone and single. Sure it was bad. But couldn’t he just go home to a lavender bubble bath then get off on a nice string of Alfred Hitchcock movies?
I looked over at his pink phallus head rocking on the bar in sad rhythmic waves. He was just another helpless soul floating aimlessly through a sea of Megans, Caitlyns and Bethanys, setting himself up for rejection and pain. It was really too sad to bear. I was either going to have to help him, or take him out back and put him out of his misery.
Then I had an idea.
“Hey Martin…you know what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna help you find a date tonight. Someone nice, who won’t give you a rash…at least not a serious one. Now, do you see anyone at the bar that you find at all appealing?” There were several girls to choose from, including one in a gabardine pantsuit with rather flamboyant sideburns.
Martin perked up and grabbed my hands. “You’d do that for me? Oh that’s incredible. You are just the best…the best!”
“Yeah, you’re right, I am pretty great. Come to think of it, I’ve helped a lot of my friends pick up quality women, I seem to have a real knack for it.”
This, of course, was a lie. Most of the time I just terrify women and leave them in a bewildering fog of annoyance and disbelief. But this was too much information for Martin’s delicate state, so I continued to blaze on.
“Okay, so tell me, which girl do you like best?” I scanned the room for eligible bachelorettes.
“That one over there in the glasses looks like she could have a thought provoking post-coital conversation about hydrogen power, what do you think?” He looked unconvinced. “Okay, what about the girl next to the Bud tapper? Wow, with that jaw line I bet she could suck the sheet metal off a Plymouth Skylark.” He shook his head. “Oooooh, now there’s a good one. Check out the girl over there that’s knitting a scarf, she’d probably tie you up and force-cuddle you against your will.”
Martin looked unhappy with the line up. He seemed to have something specific in mind.
He leaned over and whispered in my ear. “See that girl over there in the white sweater with those beautiful brown eyes. I think I’m in love with her. She works at the Sheraton, where I’m staying, and she gave me great directions to I-64 today. She’s really unbelievable.”
The girl was sitting in a secluded corner with a girlfriend, deeply involved in conversation, probably about something intensely important like the Sheraton’s double booking policy. It wasn’t going to be easy. First of all, her body language was all wrong…and she was wearing a head band. Definitely a bad combination when it comes to an easy pick up.
“Oh for Christ’s sake Martin, you would have to pick the most difficult girl in the bar. Can’t you see they don’t want to be talked to? They’re hiding away in a corner where no one can get to them. Don’t you know they’re doing that on purpose? And another thing, you’re way too drunk to talk to nice, buttoned-up girls right now. Can’t you find anyone a little sluttier, maybe someone wearing a banana clip or vinyl pants?”
“Please, please, please help me,” he said. “I want her sooooo bad.”
No matter how much I tried to talk him out of it, Martin seemed dead set on The White Sweater. He wasn’t going to budge.
Seeing the desperation in his eyes, I caved in. “Oh shit, all right. The White Sweater it is.” I re-adjusted myself on my stool so I could plan the attack and maybe even whip up some diagrams if necessary.
“Okay, first,” I said, “you have to devise a strategy. Women control sex and they’re fickle beyond belief. You can’t just run up to them without a game plan or you’ll make a wrong move and completely screw the deal. And believe me, so far you’ve had nothing but wrong moves. Number two, and this is very important. Martin, are you listening?” He was looking at The White Sweater like she was the last Twinkie left in the snack pack.
“Martin Goddamit, don’t stare, I’ve barely begun and you’re already ruining everything. Now as I was saying, number two involves “no touching.” You seem to have a real problem with this. Do not freak her out by touching her too soon. I cannot stress this enough.”
As he gazed at her, his giant, pink head was growing dewier by the second. I actually thought he might ejaculate out of his ears if I didn’t step things up a bit.
“Martin, I can’t believe you can’t do this on your own, you are a grown man after all. You see, you really only have to be three things to women. One- confident. Two- charming. And three- funny. That’s it. You don’t even have to wear nice pants or anything. Now you can do that, you came up and successfully engaged me in conversation and I’m a pretty tough customer.”
Martin turned to me. “Do you really think I can be confident and charming?”
“Well, I’m not betting the farm on it. But think about it this way, the worst she can do is pull out a hand gun and shoot you in the neck till you fall bleeding into her basket of chicken wings, right? That’s not so bad. At least you wouldn’t be around to feel the horrifying wave of rejection and shame that will drive you to an early grave.”
He dropped his head back down on the bar. “Oooooooooh, come on. You’re not helping. Maybe I should just go up and talk to her.”
“Martin…no. Right now that is the worst thing you could possibly do. I really don’t think you understand how crucial the rules are to this game. Just give me a minute to finish this diagram. I’m having a little trouble drawing the scrimmages on this damp napkin.”
Hey wait a minute, I thought. Did I say “rules to this game?” I’m playing by rules? There are no rules in my life plan. I won’t have it. I will march ahead blind if I have to, but absolutely no rules. None.
“Okay Martin, I’ve decided that due to my strict ‘no rules’ policy we’re gonna go up to The White Sweater without a game plan. We’re just gonna go up and talk to her, no matter what happens. Now, do you know her name?”
He looked down, thinking hard. “Um, I think maybe it’s….Beth, no Becky. Uh, maybe it’s something like Beverly?”
“Jesus Christ Martin, pick a fucking name already, one’s as good as the next!”
“Okay, okay…I’m gonna go with Beth! Yeah, yeah Beth.”
“Alright, that’s the spirit. Now, when you approach a woman it’s always helpful to break the ice with a little joke or something. Do you have any good ones? Think of something charming, maybe about cute baby animals. Okay, are you ready? Is your fly up? Alright Tiger, let’s go get her.”
We waltzed over to the girls’ table and plopped down in their booth. Not only did they look surprised with our presence, but slightly terrified as well. I was sure it was just a temporary condition though, like a gas bubble, or a loose toe nail. I was confident they’d come around sooner or later. They had to, my reputation as a matchmaker depended on it.
Martin the Walking Penis was staring at Beth the White Sweater in a way that could only be described as “saliva infused.” So I cleared my throat and gave his knee cap a violent kick under the table.
“Owww. Uh…hey girls, how’s it going?” he mumbled. “Oh…um…hey, have you heard the one about the two baby seals that walked into a club?”
The White Sweater winced and slid away from him, clutching her equally horrified friend. Already Martin was striking out, so I figured it was time for me to step in and do a little damage control.
“Well…Beth,” I said, moving in close. “My friend Martin here says you know where all the off-ramps are on Interstate 64. I must say that’s quite impressive. I always end up circling around the interchange ‘till I get dizzy and have to pull over.”
The White Sweater looked at me like I had just whipped off a flu sneeze on a plate of her mother’s Peach Melba.
I don’t know, maybe it was because her name was really Linda, or maybe it was because Martin was fondling her right sleeve like it was the silken coat of the rare Alsatian Nuthound (which, incidentally, is the only canine lithe enough to urinate with both hind legs raised). At any rate, the Sweater Girl did not look happy. But I was sure she would take a shine to him eventually. It was all up to Martin now. I’d given him all the helpful pointers I could, he just had to figure out how to become the most charming and confident walking penis in the room, that’s all.
I left the threesome alone and gave a Martin a hearty thumbs up. I explained I had to dash off to pick up my Silesian Swiftback from the groomer.
Tricky beasts, they get ear knots you know.
