A Thousand Tiny Failures : Memoirs of a Pickup Artist

by Tony D

  I got us a glass of water and pulled her close.

  She looked at me and said, “So what do you do In Vancouver? Do your parents live there? You must miss them and stuff?”

  “My mom lives close to there, and my stepmother too. My brothers are in the suburbs, outside the city,” I said, trying to avoid the inevitable awkward question that always followed this one.

  “So, like, where is your dad?”

  “Well, my dad died when I was twenty-one,” I said. I made sure to have a smile, and not seem sad, because I wasn’t. I only got sad when I wondered if I should be sad, and then became aware that whoever asked that question was also gauging my emotions, and wondered if they thought I should be sad. All this thought process leads to are mirrors, facing mirrors, facing mirrors.

  “Oh my god! I’m sorry. That’s so terrible. What happened?”

  I took a drink of my water, put it down, and took a deep breath. “Well, he got depressed, I think. He was an on again off again cocaine addict. You wouldn’t know it if you met him. He was really charming. But one day he parked himself in his work van, drank a sixty of vodka and shot himself full of liquid blow. No biggie.”

  Fuck.That’s a good story bro.

  Silence Hitler!

  “Oh Sebastian!”

  “No, it’s cool. I hardly knew the guy. Actually, he was alright, he just had issues. Can we change the subject?” I said, and forced a laugh. “It’s been a long time since. I’m fine with it,” I lied.

  The truth is, I always felt like I could have helped him, that if I knew back then what I know now I could have taught him about ego, about positivity. I was pissed off that I had to learn how to mack girls from the Internet. But, the present is where it’s at.

  Afterwards we smoked some weed and watched tv. We didn’t have much to talk about—we never did—but I didn’t mind. She was fun, and nice to look at.

  We shared a beer and then I went home, opened my laptop and wrote down everything that happened. I added flair, drama, and poetry. Then I posted it on the seduction forums. Glorious applause from the pickup nerds. They loved my writing. Even the trolls were happy. They told me I should write a book. I thought about it.

  Good luck with that.

  I really didn’t want to be immortalized as a womanizer, and had no idea how to write a book. I didn’t want to be a hero to awkward men worldwide, forever approached for pickup advice. Besides, I was no pickup artist, and my writing was alright, but I’m no literary legend.

  Limiting beliefs are limits you set for yourself. They’re Gestapo roadblocks in your brain. You can see the border to freedom, just beyond the smoky ridge, but you forgot your papers. Back to zee camp with you!

  Chapter 12

  Sex, Drugs, Rock and Roll

  (Hand jobs for medical care)

  “I have to go home for a month,” Olivia told me.

  And I was again without a woman—but you can get used to being without a woman, and even come to enjoy it. Is that the beginning of madness, or sanity?

  You will never be able to attract every woman. Even if you’re the most beautiful and charming man in the world, like Charleton Heston, or Mussolini—you’ll still fail from time to time. Get used to it, laugh about it, enjoy failure. The same principle is universal and applies to everything of worth. I don’t believe in being gifted. I believe in hours invested and rigid standards.

  Eric wanted to go out, and I wanted someone to pick up girls with me, so we pre-drank a few tallies before hitting the road. On the way to Tokyo, he stopped and slipped underneath someone’s front porch.

  “Sebastian, come here and hold this,” he said, handing me his wallet. I took it and he opened a little plastic baggie the size of my thumb and dumped some crushed, white powder onto the wallet.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Just some stuff I had around from old prescriptions.”

  “Oh… prescriptions for what?”

  He pulled out a rolled five dollar bill, and in one long snort sniffed half the drug into his left nostril. He leaned his head back and went, “Woooo! Oh yeah. Ok man, have some. It’s good.”

  “I dunno,” I said. “I’m terrified of hard drugs. I don’t want to foam at the mouth.”

  “C’mon! It’s fine. It’s just some old anti-depressants. I’m fine. I wouldn’t give you anything that would hurt you.”

  “Well… ok.”

  I bent down over the mystery powder to take a snort. I heard the door above us slam, so I glanced up at a white-haired Grandma with a small boy in-hand coming down the stairs directly above us. I panicked and pushed the wallet away, just as a gust of wind arrived, sending the powder spraying into a fine mist that landed over Eric’s jacket. “Fuck dude, fuck!” He yelled, jumping like a leprechaun, trying to rescue the prescription madness as I slipped out from under the porch. The lady was startled and stared at us accusingly. I felt like a villain as Eric bowed to her and we walked away. “Awwww, it’s ok Sebastian. I have more at home,” he said, patting me on the back. “You’ll learn.”

  It was a typically busy Friday night at Tokyo, with all the tight pants guys with their poofy hair and mostly white girls in American Apparel casual leggings. I let Eric wander around while I went to the deppanneur across the street and bought two more tall cans of French beer. I slammed them in the alley. Beer is my power pellet, my spinach, my green lantern. I was getting fat. I wasn’t getting any exercise other than the bike ride to and from the call center of doom. Other than that all I did was drink coffee, read books, get drunk, and hit on girls.

  Many dating coaches are drug users and heavy drinkers. There are a few straight-edgers, but they’re the highly vocal minority. We spend most of our time in bars, and have to be charming, happy, and fearless all night long. It can be downright terrifying and depressing when you’re being blown out, over and over, while students expect you to be Superman. Booze helps, but comes at a heavy cost. You can reach a state when you’re sober, but at this point, I preferred alcohol. To each their own.

  I went back inside and spotted two precious things at the top of the stairs. I walked up and said, “Greetings!”

  They jumped back, startled.

  “Ummm, hi?” one girl said.

  “Do we know you?” the other chimed in.

  “Me? Yeah. We were in elementary school together, remember? You used to push me on the swing and we would run through the daisies at recess.”

  “Yeah, anyway,“ she replied, and with a pretty spin gave me the back-turn of denial.

  Her friend shut me out too.

  I walked away and caught myself slouching in the mirror.

  You’re kinda fat. That’s it. And you need a haircut.

  I saw a girl sitting, texting. “What’s your book about?” I asked. She didn’t bite. “Hi. Are you writing a novel?” I repeated, a little bit louder with a hint of irritation.

  She sighed heavily, “My boyfriend is here.”

  “Oh, ok. That’s nice. Is he… a good and decent man?”

  She smirked and stopped texting, “Go away bro. Not interested.”

  I looked at the dance floor. There were about a dozen other girls, all texting on their phones. I took a swig of my beer and tried another angle.

  “Does he beat you?”

  She looked back up at me. “Ha ha? What? No. Look, you’re cute. I’m sure there’s a girl here for you, but I’m not her. I have a boyfriend.”

  “You all do.”

  I stared at her for about thirty seconds, without blinking, just to weird her out. It worked because she frowned and went back to texting.

  Perhaps I need dental work, or new shoes. A made a few more tries with similar results. I figured maybe it’s just this cursed place, a purely logistical issue. I’ve heard that in other countries people are very warm and exceptionally social. Maybe I should move to Thailand, or Greece. I’ll buy a boat and fish off Cuba, like Hemingway.

  I spotted Eric across the room and worked my way through the
crowd to meet him. He was in a gaggle of hipsters, talking to a tall, neon hat wearing, skinny jeans bearded boy. Neither of them appeared happy.

  “Look dude,” Eric said, pushing his finger into Neon’s chest, “I don’t get along well with homophobes.”

  Neon stood with mouth agape, dropped his chin, looked up again, reached out with a right jab and popped Eric in the jaw, putting him to floor with a thump. The crowd gasped. Eric looked up and hollered, “What the fuck dude!? Why did you hit me?”

  “You called me a homophobe.”

  “Well, aren’t you?”

  “No! Are you?”

  “Hell no.”

  “Prove it.”

  “Ok!”

  And then Eric jumped up, grabbed Neon’s face, pulled it in and they were making out. The crowd gasped again, and instantly dispersed. Just like that. Eric had a game plan. He’s purely Machiavellian in his quest; sniffing pills, engaging in random combat, and pulling emotional strings like a debauched puppet-master-guru. To become like him, I would have to dedicate my life to drug fueled dandyism. I’m far too conservative; I need to consult the forum archives for posts on extremist party culture.

  I left them to it and did a few more laps of Tokyo—nothing. They wanted nothing of me. Not my smile, my thoughts, my wiener—nothing. The lights came on and I found Eric being escorted out of the bar by security. “Fuck you, fuck you, fucking Neo Conservs!”

  He boasted of his accomplishments from the street, blocking traffic. I pulled him away.

  “I’m an artist. I’ll destroy you! I’m one of your best customers you homophobic assholes!”

  I dragged him away a few blocks: “Man, do you want to get your ass kicked again?” I said. “Those bouncers won’t kiss you.”

  Garbage day in Montreal has people piling their junk onto the front street. Eric noticed a mound and dashed over to it, pulled out his lighter, and like a pro arsonist ignited a box of newspapers. Within seconds there was a column of sparks and smoke four feet high. I didn’t have time to stop him. He’s too fast. This was his art, his destructive joy.

  “Holy shit dude. Are you mental?” I yelled.

  He fanned the flames, and they grew quickly until we were standing at a street-side bonfire with tongues licking well over six feet high.

  “Dude. We need to run now,” I snapped.

  Eric was jumping around the pile, Indian whooping and kicking at the flames. I pulled his arm but he resisted. He had a crazed, drunken, pill-popped sex frenzy in his eyes. All of his frustration had transmuted to a lust, you might say, an appetite for destruction. This is what happens to a wild beast when it can’t find food, or feels threatened, or can’t attract a mate. I understood. I finally pulled him away from the inferno, when a car slid up beside us. A black man in his fifties yelled out the window, “Hey man. What in God’s name is wrong with you? Are you crazy?”

  The flames were still over six feet high.

  “Nigger! Fuck you…nigger! Hah!” Eric screamed at him.

  Oh my lord.

  “Nigger?” The black man said, leaning out of his window. “Hah hah! Kid are you for real? Nigger? What? Did you really say Nigger? Come here you little shit!”

  The black man gunned his car towards the curb, intending to run Eric down, but in his drug fueled fervor he was too agile and leapt nimbly out of the way, giggling like a school girl. Then Eric pitched forward and ran, still war whooping, into a nearby alleyway. I followed him down there. It was like I was watching a great piece of history, a fantastic movie come to life. When I finally caught up he was leaning to catch his breath.

  “Ha ha, dude, that was awesome,” he said, gleefully.

  I glanced back around the corner, but the black man had given up his pursuit. The fire was still raging and a crowd had formed. “Yeah. Umm, we should go before we end up in jail,” I insisted.

  I could hear fire truck sirens in the distance. I didn’t want to go to prison; I’m too cute, I have dimples. I’ll be a bitch for sure. It was lose, lose. At the very least, I’d have a criminal record and not be able to travel. I’d be stuck in Canada and forced to date difficult, masculinized western women for eternity. Or maybe this is all part of my development. I needed this experience. Maybe I’m supposed to learn some great and timeless lesson from this debaucherous little man.

  Just when I thought he had calmed, Eric jogged over to an old building and started leaping upwards, grasping for a steel fire escape ladder hanging just out of his reach. I was about to warn him, save this wonderful life, until he managed to catch the bottom rung. As he was hanging with his feet dangling about three feet off the ground there was a, ‘click, click,’ and the ladder came loose with a, ‘swoosh,’ falling straight onto his skull, sending him crumpling into the pavement into a motionless heap.

  That’s it I thought. He’s finally dead.

  “Urrrgghhh, fuuuuuckk,” he moaned.

  “Jesus Christ!” I said, and picked him up by the arm. His scalp was gored and blood ran down his face onto his jacket. It dripped onto my legs, staining my new jeans and shoes.

  “Hahaha! That was fucking rad!” He said with a dazed fist pump. He looked like he was about to lose consciousness.

  “You’re in shock man. I think you should go to the hospital. You’re bleeding.”

  “Really? You think so? Shit. But I don’t have healthcare.”

  “What? We’re in Canada.”

  “Yeah we are. Canada sucks. Fucking Neo-Conservs masquerading as liberals run this shit.”

  Eric sat on the curb and smoked a cigarette while I called him a taxi. He got in and I gave the driver ten bucks. “To the hospital,” I said. I walked back to my apartment and told Lucy and Mark about our night. They were horrified. There was talk of intervention. So I figured Eric was slightly crazy, but for some reason I admired him.

  I would never be that crazy. Most of us are worried about paying bills, or looking nice, or being safe. We’ll never know what it truly means to rage against the machine.

  When Eric finally got home he had four stitches sewn onto his head.

  “Dude,” he said, proudly. “The doctor said he wouldn’t give me stitches because I didn’t have my care card. I argued with him, and then he reached down and squeezed my balls. In between stitches he would grab my dick.”

  “And you let him?” Lucy asked.

  “Yeah, whatever, man,” he said, suddenly glum.

  I needed a new wingman.

  Chapter 13

  The Lair (Voices)

  You shouldn’t do everything alone. Humans are social creatures and even the greatest of sociopathic introverts needs companionship from time to time. If you take someone’s time, make sure you leave something in return—even if only your ear. Not literally your ear, I mean, listen instead of talk.

  The day after Eric’s drug fueled rampage I Googled, “Montreal Lair,” which was the local men’s group, and signed up for the next membership application meeting. I imagined most of these guys would be professional pickup artists. I thought that if they spent all their free time studying seduction, they must be pua lords. Maybe I could infiltrate and seek my Jedi mentor. The truth is, most of these groups, though helpful, are incredibly misguided, like I was.

  That night I heard Eric and Lucy arguing about something to do with rent money. I hadn’t spoken to Lucy in a week. I just didn’t see her around, and when I did I had nothing to talk to her about. I was either out partying or reading in my room. I still preferred solitude. Spending too much time in the company of others grates on me. I only like people in small bursts. I’ve never understood why anyone would want to be around others all of the time. Then again, I’m often lonely and emo. You have to find a balance that works for you.

  It was several days before I received an email from the head of the lair. He invited me to meet with several other applicants at the McDonalds in the mall. On the way to the meeting I harassed a girl on the Metro and asked, “Do you think an overabundance of carbon monoxide on t
his train makes us sleepy, or is the ride just boring?” She replied meekly, and wouldn’t hold eye contact. I considered shaking her—“I’m awesome you bitch, wake up!”

  I gave up, got off and approached a girl selling flowers. “Hey, did you grow all these? Your garden must be glorious.” I asked for her number, but she had a boyfriend. He’s in the army. I insisted she give me her Facebook info. She wrote it down on a napkin. Later, I realized I couldn’t read her handwriting.

  If God exists, he wants you to lose. You do this every damn day. How do you still suck at it?

  I arrived at McDonalds and saw a pack of wary looking men huddled at a table. They handed me a non-disclosure agreement. They didn’t look like badass puas, just a bunch of normal looking guys of various ages. A short faux-hawked guy kept asking me who my favorite pickup guru was.

  “I dunno,” I told him, “I read some Mystery Method, but I can’t remember his lines. I like RSD, Brad P, and some others. Lately I mostly read biographies about guys like Bruce Lee, Picasso, Nietzsche, Tolstoy, Bukowski, and others.”

  “I have six dozen routines memorized,” he told me.

  “Wow… that’s a lot.”

  “Where do you sarge?” he said, stroking at his faux-hawk.

  “Umm, anywhere. A few bars on St. Laurent.”

  “I’ve approached about one hundred HB’s. Do you use negs?”

  “Hundreds? Tight. Negs? No, not really. Oh wait, sometimes. Yeah. I say, ‘Nice hair, do you have any split ends?’ Hey, you want to go talk to chicks or what, since we’re in the mall?”

  “Naw man, I only do night game,” he said, stuffing a McNugget into his mouth.

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Night game is my specialty.” He swallowed. “Hey, do you do direct, or indirect?”

  “Whatever works I suppose. Every situation is unique, I prefer to improvise. You know, you can’t make predictions in war,” I said.