Asshole

by Martin Kihn

  What I thought was Al was more confusing than my therapist. And I rarely understood a word she said.

  A couple nights later I was in the kitchen watching Gloria julienne some potatoes when we somehow got onto the subject of assertiveness—okay, I brought it up—and I made the mistake of asking her, “Do you think I’m not pushy enough?”

  She thought about this a little too long. Then she put down her knife and said, “There’s a lot of different types of guys. You’re just sweet and thoughtful. It’s okay It’s why I married you.”

  “Well, it’s not working out.”

  She started chopping up some chives into pieces so tiny they were almost a liquid.

  “I’m just saying,” I continued, “I’m going to be working on my personality.”

  “What personality?”

  Her comment kind of hurt, but she didn’t mean it like that. Also, she had a point.

  After dinner, I called Al and told him I needed some help bringing my Asshole to life in the world. He asked me to meet him at the closest thing Manhattan has to a suburban mall, the Time Warner Center at Columbus Circle.

  We hooked up at the top of the Whole Foods escalator. He was wearing a psychedelic-patterned Bob Marley T-shirt and jeans, and his silver hair had that “super-casual” look that only comes after an hour with gel, a mirror, and a full team of stylists. To me he looked completely ridiculous, like a—well, like an acting teacher. I asked him, “Why’d you want to meet here?”

  Instead of saying something, he stared at me, at my forehead, and I felt uncomfortable so I looked away—which he jumped on:

  “See that! What you just did there?”

  “What?”

  “Looked away—that’s submission. I was giving you the Power Stare and you gave up. We’ve got to work on your eye contact, champ. It’s not very strong.”

  He led me around the mall and pointed out men who were doing particular things with their bodies, hands, and heads.

  “See that guy?” he asked me. “He’s totally Beta. See—he’s looking down, he’s all pulled-in, not taking up space. Your Alpha Male, he takes up space. And look—he smiles a lot. That woman’s got to be his wife. You’re married, right?”

  “Yup.”

  “Straight? I’m kidding—see there, he’s so Beta, what’d he just do?”

  “I don’t—”

  “He’s got the Fear Factor chimp face—see that?”

  What I saw was a normal-looking guy in a newish Eddie Bauer outfit holding some Whole Foods bags and talking to his wife. Sure, he slouched a little, but who didn’t?

  “The Fear face,” explained Al, “is when you’ve got the corners of the mouth pulled down and back, like a smile, but it looks tight. See it now—he’s doing it again! What a girl!”

  I guessed I saw what he meant. But it reminded me of—

  “You do that a lot,” he pointed out. “That’s a regular look for you.”

  What he suggested—in between mocking most of the men who happened by—was that I perform self-massage to relax my facial muscles. And that I not—repeat, not—smile. Not until I could control it.

  “Take a smile vacation,” he suggested, “for a year.”

  “But—”

  “Have a look on your face like you just heard your pony died. Good, like that.”

  We had to go up to the second floor, near the bistro with sandwiches that cost $2,000 each, to find a guy Al considered “typical Alpha.” He was a man of modest height in a dark blue business suit, no tie, with tinted lenses in his glasses, and a couple colleagues or clients he was lecturing about something. We got close enough to hear some of what he said—his voice was pretty loud.

  “AOL,” said Alpha, “and blah blah Raymond fuck blah buyback blah blah incremental subs for sale blah …”

  “This guy’s awesome,” said Al, and he annotated Alpha’s body language for me. “He’s got his finger pointed—that’s aggressive. And he’s staring at those guys, not dropping eye contact at all. His mouth is smooth. The eyes are looking high, above those guys’ noses, see that? He’s in their space—close enough to make them uncomfortable. See how that one guys got his arms crossed, over his chest. Defensive. Those glasses are cool, too—can’t read him. But notice he’s physically relaxed. The other guys are tense.”

  “I see,” I said, not really seeing at all. To me it looked like some Jack Nicholson wannabe boring the shit out of two managers.

  Al summed up: “Alpha’s always the most relaxed person in the group.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “He’s got nothing to prove. Doesn’t need nothing from no one. He just fuckin’ is.”

  I walked around for a while and he had me practice going more slowly, like I was in a swimming pool. Walking with my shoulders down and my chest out, as though my hands were tied to bags of sand. Not smilng much, with my chin out farther than usual, and my eyes at the level of the horizon, or a tad higher.

  The hardest part was when he had me stare at people until they looked away. “It’s what monkeys do,” he said. “You’re the big freakin’ monkey of Time Warner Center, Chico.”

  “Don’t call me Chico.”

  “Alright, Zeppo.”

  I felt very uncomfortable—but he was watching me, and I thought, “You can’t hurt anybody with your eyes,” but it turned out yes, I could hurt somebody with my eyes. That somebody was me. It was physically painful for me to stare at passersby. I felt a tightening in my chest and shoulders. Then I remembered I always felt that way because I wore small shirts on the mistaken assumption I was going to lose weight someday soon. You too may feel symptoms of panic. Ignore them.

  Like you, I had never executed a conscious act of dominance in my life. Except maybe that one time when I made Tom Meyrowicz take the bottom bunk at Camp Okoboji—but then I felt so bad, I gave him my Lord of the Rings encyclopedia for the summer, so it doesn’t really count.

  Here’s an assignment: Go to the mall and stare at people. Really stare. Don’t look away or blink for any reason. They’ll almost always retreat in baffled submission. Now add a smile to your stare—you’ll get a different reaction. Women interpret it as flirty, which they may or may not like, depending on whether you’re good-looking like me or ugly like you. Straight men think it’s odd. But take away the smile and you’re like the Terminator. Savor the turbo-power of eye contact. It gets easier, and then it gets addictive.

  Later, sitting over a couple Matcha Green Tea Mists with Energy Boosts at Jamba Juice downstairs, Al explained to me what I’d been doing wrong my entire life.

  “See, you’ve been playing low status for years,” he said, “and it’s second nature. You smile a lot, don’t take up much space, touch your face a lot—like that, there. You don’t really look at people when you’re talking to them but pay a lot of attention when you’re listening. Right?”

  I nodded, in shame. I tried to look away since I was listening, but this seemed rude.

  “It’s okay. It works for you. Just there’s a difference between being liked and being respected. You can be like a Beta—loved—but not respected. And an Asshole’s all about respect.”

  “You’re right there.”

  “Another thing—assholes DON’T FUCKIN’ AGREE SO MUCH! Even if they do. Think: interrupt, disagree, say ‘No.’ Repeat what I just said.”

  “Interrupt, disagree, say ‘No’—”

  “NO—NO—WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!!”

  “What do you—?”

  “You’re following orders, man. Agreeing with me on everything. It’s Beta.”

  He stalked a couple high school girls with his eyes.

  “You’re completely wrong about that, Al,” I said. “I totally disagree with you.”

  “Nice try,” he laughed. “But mean it. Bring the people into your reality, don’t go into theirs. I get the idea you spend a lotta time in other people’s realities. Am I right?”

  I wasn’t sure if I should say yes, which was agreeing, but I didn�
�t want to disagree. So I grunted.

  There are a number of adjustments you will have to make to your repertoire—such as not looking downward, not saying “ah” and “um” when you speak, not pulling in your arms and shoulders, and so on. You will have to be more talkative, louder, bigger, more relaxed, more in charge of the flow of conversation, and less willing to listen. You might say this is impossible. At that moment, at Jamba Juice, I would have agreed with you.

  SEVEN SECRETS OF ASSHOLE BODY LANGUAGE

  1.DO NOT SMILE.

  2.Gesture rarely. Keep your fingers open and curved in a claw and, if you must gesture, raise your hands above shoulder level.

  3.Thrust your chin out like you went to Yale. If you went to Yale, thrust it out even farther.

  4.Glare when talking. When you’re pretending to “listen,” look away repeatedly, yawn, look at your watch, and take calls.

  5.Get very close to people, until they step backward. Then move toward them again.

  6.Above all, do NOT “mirror” what other people do. This builds rapport. Try to make your gestures and expressions very different from the other person’s. (Another fun game is to mirror them so closely that they start to get creeped out.)

  7.Always lead with your crotch, even if your pants are on.

  Now you’re ready to take it to the streets. Try being an Asshole on the highways and stores of your hometown, as I did.

  It’s not so easy to know how someone would act when they’re totally unlike you. But thespians face this dilemma for a living, and they figure it out. You do have one considerable advantage as you go about constructing your new persona: He is exactly the opposite of you. So, as in a mirror image or an X-ray, you know intimately who the Asshole is not.

  Think: How does an Asshole walk down the street?

  First thing is he goes where he wants and doesn’t pay too much attention to trivia like WALK signs, ambulances, and other human beings. If you want to stop, you stop without looking behind yourself first. If you happen to bump into someone there are wild accusations hurled at the victim, and a swiftly hoisted middle finger.

  You definitely take up more space than you used to, swinging your arms like a Corleone, not failing to hit stray octogenarians. And you have a very slight look of bemusement, as though listening to a tape loop of tongue lashings you’ve recently delivered. You meet people’s gazes head-on, meaning utmost disrespect at all times, while ignoring anything that’s said to you, especially cries for help. Or for money.

  You defer to no one, listen to no one, fear no one. You’re so self-centered it’s kind of funny, really.

  Here’re some examples from my own experience acting like an Asshole in Manhattan. Remember, like me, you’ll make mistakes. The important thing is to keep kicking.

  It felt good, at first, striding down the street swinging my arms like an ape. Glaring at people. Looking like I thought something was on fire. But then I realized there was just one problem. Nobody noticed. No one was in awe of my powerful aura. No one looked at me at all. And walking against the light, into the middle of traffic, only made me a typical New York pedestrian.

  I needed to shift into medieval mode.

  Maintaining my loping stride, I pushed my way into a Starbucks on Greenwich across from the St. Vincent’s Hospital Emergency Room. There were a few people standing at the registers, in front of me. I didn’t have the balls to cut in line yet, so I decided to speak up from where I stood.

  “Let me get a skinny no-foam latte!” I said at high volume.

  The baristas ignored me.

  “Hey—no-foam skinny—”

  “Heard ya the first time, dude,” said a skinny, latte-colored guy standing behind the bank of espresso machines in a green apron.

  “Then what’s the problem?” I asked him.

  “Huh?”

  “Where is it?”

  “Chill out.”

  “You chill out,” I said.

  “We’re switching you to decaf, dude.”

  “What’d you say?”

  He shook his bony head rather sadly as he worked the nozzles. Steam shot from the silver pitcher like a magic trick.

  I noticed, when I paid, the baristas exchanged a glance that could only be called “knowing.”

  “Thanks for nothing,” I snipped.

  “Enjoy your day, sir.”

  I’d actually wanted to sit and drink my beverage, but I felt uncomfortable now, so I went out onto the street, but then I realized that’s exactly what an Asshole would never do—feel discomfort around people he’d offended—so I went back inside and took a seat. I glared at the baristas once or twice.

  They were busy with all the other people in the world. But I was pretty sure I’d made my point.

  I tried to make the same point again and again over the next few days as I went about my so-called life. Do what an actor does: Imagine what the day-to-day is for your Asshole, how he would react to major tragedies like losing a shirt button or encountering a rubbery omelette. Be like an actor, only less polite.

  Next I went into a CD store we’ll call CD Explosion. I picked out a copy of the latest work by an artist I absolutely despise. I won’t be all negative by mentioning his name here, except to say that his name is Josh Groban. If you don’t know who I’m talking about, please change lives with me. If you do know who he is you’ll agree violently with what I decided to do next.

  I paid for the CD, took my bag and receipt and left the store. This was only the beginning. Ambling over to the nearest street trash container, I tossed in the receipt and bag, unwrapped my Groban CD—an action I hope never to repeat in my life—and went back into CD Explosion. There was, of course, a line at the one working register.

  When it was my turn, I waved the jewel case at the startled witchling in the black baseball cap behind the register and said: “I need my money back. This CD sucks.”

  She tried the first Asshole-deflection tactic: ignoring me. “Next guest,” she said to the person behind me.

  Assertiveness guides and coaches tell you to pretend to be a “broken record” when you want something, repeating the same claim over and over until somebody hears you. That’s what I did: “I need my money back. This CD sucks.”

  She relented, sighing, “Okay, give me the receipt.”

  “I don’t have it,” I said. “No receipt.”

  “You just left here,” she said with genuine amazement. “Just a second ago.”

  “I need my money back,” I said. “This CD sucks.”

  “Where’d you put it?”

  “I need my money back. This—”

  “What’d you expect,” said some punk from the line I was holding up. “It’s Josh Groban.”

  “Amen to that, brother,” I said, then turned back to the witchling. “I need my—”

  “I can’t do it without a receipt,” she said. “Just go out and find it.”

  “No receipt,” I persisted. “I need my money back. This CD su—”

  By now a slight-figured guy in a blazer had come up—summoned by a secret signal. He interrupted me: “I can help you over here, sir.”

  Since he was only about one foot to my right, I didn’t quite understand what he meant by “over here.” As soon as he grabbed my upper arm and ushered me away from the register I realized he meant something like “away from the sane people.”

  At a safe distance, he explained to me that he was very happy to refund or exchange my purchase—even opened, as it was—but there was one small and regrettable technicality we’d have to work with. Namely, he needed a receipt.

  I stomped out of there the enraged owner of a new Josh Groban CD.

  A few days later, I was walking around Murray Hill and I bumped into someone. I mean that literally—I slammed into him on the street. Some might say I did it on purpose. He was not a huge man, about my size, in a pricey black wool overcoat.

  Of course, I did not say “Excuse me.” I glowered at him. “Out of my way,” I said with my eyes. �
�What the fuck!” he shouted. “What’s your problem?”

  I didn’t fall to my knees quickly enough, apparently. He poked me in the chest, screaming: “Watch where you’re going! What the fuck is wrong with you! Are you fucking kidding me—!”

  How did these people do it? Everyone else seemed to have mastered Assholism. What was wrong with me? I minced a rapid retreat away from this psycho, mumbling apologies until he was well out of earshot.

  To my credit, I refused to give up.

  Another equally impressive thing I did that weekend was take my lunch into church. It wasn’t a church I’d been to before, and I just set my #3 with large fries and coke on one of the pews in the back and settled in to munch and enjoy the service. I skipped communion; I just wasn’t that hungry, frankly.

  Although a few of my fellow sinners turned around and evileyed me during the proceedings, I let it roll off my back. As I was leaving, the minister appeared from somewhere, pointing to the wrappers I had every intention of leaving right there in the pew.

  He was a large avuncular man with a white beard and big smile, just like you’d expect. And his voice was deep. “That looks tasty,” he said, holding my hand in his. “What’s your name, son?”

  “Martin,” I said.

  “I haven’t seen you here before, have I, Martin?”

  “This is my first time at this location.”

  “It’s so great to have you with us,” he said. “Please—and I mean this sincerely—please come back. There’s always a place for you here.”

  I flounced off—turns out I’d ordered a #3 with side of guilt.

  You might look over these field tests and declare “Failure!” I, however, felt encouraged. The reason was more one of personal safety: I’d tried to be an Asshole in a so-called tough city and nothing that bad had happened. Nobody got hurt, really, not even me. It was a relief to realize my personality was more flexible than I’d thought. I began to think maybe I did have what it took to at least be, if not an Asshole, at least a first-class dork.

  Maybe I could even try it at home.

  On my way through the lobby of my apartment building, I ran into my neighbor Ramon. For the first time in my life I didn’t say “Hi!” and—like the rest of the Borough of Manhattan—he didn’t seem to notice.