The Adventures of a Professional Wingman

James Decatur will help you get laid or save you from the biggest mistake of your life.

[prowingman-blog]

Going Under Slowly

The first thing I notice on "Winston" is the black suspenders holding up his black pleated pants, his silk black vest enveloping a long sleeve, crisply ironed cream colored shirt, the neatly tied black bow tie cinched around his collar. "You know you look like an aging hipster right? Or the member of a barbershop quartet prison gang. I'm not quite sure. Y'know, part of my services involve dressing you appropriately to get you what you want on our night out."

"I'm...fine. I...at least have control...over the way I look tonight."

***

"Him? You're helping him get laid." Mara stood in the doorway, hands on her hips, the rage collecting in her elbows. "He killed my uncle in front of my cousin."

"Allegedly. Leopold was acquitted. Besides, I owe his nephew a favor for what he did on the Brownstein job."

Mara stormed back into the kitchen, imagining open cabinet doors as my face.

***

"Winston" stares at the pint of Spaten resting on the coaster, the condensation running down the glass. The booth creaks as I slide in on the other side, pint of Blue Moon in hand.

"Really, a German beer? Why are you being such a stereotype?"

"My...father...hated German beer. I'm...not sure why. Besides...who says I want to drink it?"

"No one wants to talk to the guy not drinking or drinking too much. All things in moderation."

"Who says...I want anyone...to talk to me?"

I lean back, running my fingers through my hair. "I get you were forced into this by a 12-year-old, I do. Try to lighten up and have a little fun."

Winston picks up the pint glass, the beer gurgling down his throat. Winston wipes the severed head of beer away from his handlebar mustache. "That...wasn't so bad." He covers his mouth after the hiccup escapes.

"Fun, not a late night arraignment, Winston. Let's keep it fun. See anyone you like?"

 I watch Winston look around at the landscape, noticing two women in their mid-20s standing near the bar sipping cans of beer gingerly, their shoes flat and tattered. "No."

***

Leopold belches, slamming down his third pint of Spaten. He rises to his feet, legs wobbling.

"I think you've had enough," I yell loud enough to cut through the digital jukebox's volume. "We're getting you some water and then I'm taking you home."

Winston braces himself on the table top. "I think...I see someone...I like." He tilts his head towards a woman with pale skin, raven black hair tied into a bun, thin, silver framed glasses, black high heels sipping on a martini near the bar with two of her friends.

"You're not ready to face a pack." James stands, places a hand on Winston's left shoulder. "Let's work on talking to one woman first before we have you talk to a woman who is out with her friends."

"I thought...you were the best...at what you did. You can't help me...in distracting her friends?"

"I could if you were sober."

"Sobriety...seems to be...my problem." Winston stumbles out of the booth, towards the women.

***

Winston scratches his stomach through the black t-shirt tucked into a pair of jeans. I place a pint of beer in front of him, before sliding into the seat across.

"Why...did I let you talk me...into wearing...this?" Winston looks down, pulling on his shirt.

"The murderous barbershop quartet member look didn't exactly work last night. We were lucky to only be banned for life."

"I thought women...loved knife tricks. That's how...my father...wooed my mother."

"For someone who hates his father to the point of stabbing him in the larynx, you seem to emulate him a lot."

"It's...the only toolset...I have." Winston lifts the pint glass, takes three gulps, then places it back on the table.

"How did you get so good with knives?"

"Practice. Lots...of practice."

"How do you think you're going to get good at talking to women?"

"...practice?"

"Exactly. You aren't the first socially inept person I've coached and you won't be the last." James bows his head slightly towards the bar. "Your mission tonight is to just find a woman to start a conversation with without a goal in mind."

"What...if I don't find one worth talking to?"

"Since you should be setting no expectations, if you don't find someone to talk to, I will find you someone. To motivate you a little more, you're cut off after the second pint until you earnestly attempt a conversation with a woman. Is that clear?" Winston nods tentatively. "Good. Now drink. Slowly. I can tell you need the courage."

[prowingman-blog]

Bridge & Tunnel

I didn't see the knife until it was in my stomach.

"That's for fucking up my relationship with Sarah," was the last thing Paul said before two bouncers tackled him. I listened from the floor of the bar, my current client calling 9-1-1. She knelt next to my head, cradling it, telling me to stay awake, that I wasn't going anywhere.

***

"You...you want to go back, Jamie?"

"I can't keep hiding, Mara. My clients are counting on me."

"The fact I'm counting on you doesn't matter?"

"It does. I'm running out of money and I don't want to mooch off you."

Xiomara throws the covers off, stomps around the bedroom, Easter Egg hunting for her clothes. She puts on one of my t-shirts, her low-rise jeans, stuffs her bra and panties in her back pocket. Xiomara slams my bedroom and front door.

***

"I couldn't believe you called. I mean...after what happened and all."

"We never finished our business."

"True but still...things have changed. I'm seeing someone but I'm not sure he's been honest with me. My friends noticed him here flirting with other women and..."

"...you're wearing that magenta colored wig and the large pair aviator sunglasses to try and catch him in the act?"

"Yeah."

"Here." I hand Sandra my Bluetooth headset. "Go to the bar next door and stay hidden. I'll keep my phone on so you can hear everything if he shows up. When is he supposed to be here?"

"He's usually here around 11."

"That's an hour from now. Alright. Go. Make sure you pace yourself, o.k.?"

Sandra gets up from the booth and leaves. I look over at the floor, grateful I didn't leave any stains.

[prowingman-blog]

Information Travels

I press the bridge of my glasses back until the nose pads almost touch my tear ducts. I bow my head, sip my pint of Blue Moon and listen to the conversations between the blare of indie rock at various stage of its evolution. “I intentionally wrote it out to be an illegible mess/You wanted me to write you letters, but I'd rather lose your address” the jukebox sings. I’ll have to remember that one. The Blackberry in my pocket rumbles in my pants pocket. I ignore it. Tonight’s not a work night. Glass and plastic smack the bar top. People spill in and out. An elbow, a hand, a padded bra flirt with my back now and again. I know better not to pick someone up at a bar. The bartender with art gallery forearms and hourglass geometry stops in front of me and leans into my ear. “I’ve never seen you in glasses before, Jamie.” Xiomaria is the only one I let get away calling me ‘Jamie’ or ‘Jim’. “Just tryin’ to be invisible tonight. Some people meditate in quiet rooms or deep in the forest. I do it in places like this. Being attuned to my natural surroundings makes me better at what I do.” “Why don’t you use your skills to find someone yourself?” “I believe in stumbling, not hunting. That doesn’t stop me from helping people hunt or being the fox bringing back the wounded trophy. Would you like me to stumble onto you some time?” I look into Xiomaria’s brown eyes after asking and her cheeks try hard hiding the blush growing on them. “Do you want another one?” I nod, letting my question disappear into the smoke. When the pint comes back, I leave a couple of bucks and take the glass with me into the woods. I fight not to look over my shoulder to see if Xiomaria’s watches me get swallowed into the Saturday night thicket.

[prowingman-blog]

Standing By The Wall

Sal asks if we can go over to Bork Bork, the upscale cooking store in the downtown area.

"Who's the meal gonna be for? I know a chef or two that could give you some pointers."

"Oh I'm not cooking. I just...need to do some research."

"Alright, lead the way."

***

Sal looks around the store. I watch him pick up a bladed dough blender, take out a notebook out of his pocket and make some notes. He puts the bladed dough blender down.

"Sal, what are we doing here?" He ignores the question as he walks over to the front counter and takes a picture of watermelon cutting knives in a watermelon-like sheathe with his phone.

"I'm done with my research. We can go."

***

"Sal, what are you up to?" Chinaski's is so quiet this time of day, I don't have to yell. Sal press a few buttons on his phone and hands it to me.

"This is the my crime fighting costume. This girl, Rachel, is into cosplay and superheros and I thought it would be a great idea if you would, y'know, start getting fresh and rough with her and then I step out of the shadows, kick your ass, and bam, I get the girl."

I lean back in the booth, refuel my malty wisdom with my pint of PBR. "That's a really clever idea but I have some questions. First off, what if she falls for the mask but not the man behind the mask? How are you going to handle that?"

"I'm fully prepared to date Rachel in character."

I sigh, take another sip. "Alright, what if she actually likes me as I hit on her aggressively? Won't you sweeping in and saving the day make you look like an asshole?"

"You'll need to look like you listen to Dave Matthews to prevent that from happening. She hates date rapists. Then again, who doesn't?"

I look down, shake my head, take another sip. "What if she greets you and/or I with a Taser or pepper spray?"

"She doesn't carry either of those. Wouldn't happen. Rachel does study Tae Kwon Do though. I was at her brown belt testing last weekend."

I finish the PBR and push the can away. "Waitaminute, waitaminute, waitaminute, if she studies martial arts, how is saving her from me going to win her over when she can just beat my ass?"

"I...um...I...even a strong woman needs a hero. Look at Mary Jane Parker and Lois Lane. Strong women but still needed someone to save them."

"One, Lois Lane kept putting herself in danger to get Superman in her mouth and it eventually worked. Two, Mary Jane was thrust into the role of supporting a superhero. She either had to be strong or pretend not to know. Three, these women are fictional. Even with all the facts laid out, you are still going through with this?" Sal nods. I slide out of the booth.

"Where are you going, James? I need your help. That's why I hired you."

"Sal, I have a common sense clause in my contract. If I feel you are defying the laws of common sense in your plans, I have the right to terminate our contract. Best of luck to you."

***

I'm heading over to Chinaski's to meet a client for some last minute last call ops. Outside of Bloom's, I see Rachel talking to a guy in a hoodie. Her posture is all 'hell no'. From the alley across the street, I see a figure wearing a BMX helmet and pads walking toward them. The light catches the metal on his knuckles. The hoodie turns, yells something, and then punches the figure in the gut and walks away. The figure crumples and Rachel leans down to check on him. I guess I didn't see that one coming.  

[prowingman-blog]

Feeding Time

I was too far away when he said to the woman at the bar “hey baby, you look like you’ve got some lactose I can tolerate.” Her boyfriend got two fistfuls of the client’s gut before I could separate the two. Picking up their tab wasn’t enough of an apology so I had the bouncer rough up my client a little and then throw him out on the sidewalk. I won’t tell him I told you so. I won’t expect a thank you in between swallows of his blood.

[prowingman-blog]

Bump

I’m watching Carol talk to Daria at the bar, waiting for the right moment to bump into them. Daria’s hired me to verify whether an ex-girlfriend who would not name herself called Carol to tell her that Daria had sex with her right after Daria got back from a business trip from Seattle. Since they don’t live together, Daria hasn’t been able to check Carol’s cellphone. I watch Carol finish her pint of Blue Moon. As she turns to order another, I step out of the booth and walk over to the two of them. “Daria? Is that you?” Carol turns to face me. “Who the fuck is this, Daria?” Carol stares gut punches. “Holy shit, Dean? Dean Samson? Oh my god, I haven’t seen you since high school.” Daria goes to hug me before Carol puts her arm between us. “You never told me about this guy, Dar.” “Carol, I don’t have to tell you about everyone in my past. You certainly don’t.” ‘This doesn’t seem like a good time, does it, Daria? I’ll just order a drink and get out of your hair.” As I lean to get a drink, I make myself trip and bump Carol. “What the fuck, man?” “Sorry. Let me buy you a beer.” “Get the fuck out of here before I deck you.” “Good to see you, Daria.” Daria waves as I make my way back to the booth. I pull Carol’s cellphone out of my pocket. Thankfully, she forgot to lock it. I look through the received call history and don’t see a blocked call or a phone number on the night Carol claimed one of Daria’s exes called. I take a photo of the call history and e-mail it to Daria. It’s up to her now what she wants to do with the evidence.

[prowingman-blog]

California

The knock on my door is slow and sad. I look through the peephole and see Drake, suit stained like a buffet table cloth. I walk in and he collapses in my arms. I gag at his imitation crab meat aftershave. *** After an hour long shower and six fingers of Glenlivet, Drake recounts the night. There was a German, gluttonous with women and with food, Victor. He took such a liking to Drake, Victor offered him his wife stuffed with imitation crab meat. Drake said Victor’s favorite thing was eating a California roll cream pie. Drake almost said no. Almost. As he talks and slumps on my couch, Drake looks broken. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.” “What wasn’t supposed to happen, Drake?” “This. You weren’t supposed to get this far...” I sit at the edge of my chair. “You mean you weren’t supposed to get this far.” “No, James, I meant you. I got tired of you of running interference against me. This...this was supposed to ruin you...” “Because I would take a gig like this, hooking someone up with a weird fetish with people with other weird fetishes? I got you in that play party because of my rep with the kink community here. I’m having drinks with Victor tomorrow.” Drake drops the highball glass. “My question to you is why make up this bet?” Drake looks down. “Say no more. This is your kink, I get it. I’ll help you as long as you pay me. I’ll blackmail you if you decide to lie to me again. I have those photos, too. Understood.” Drake nods. “Go home. We’ll get your golden tickets punched soon enough.”

[prowingman-blog]

American Woman, Get Away From Me

The smoking support group didn’t pan out the way I wanted to. The humidor leather of her skin was just too much for Drake to deal with. “The contract didn’t specify age, just they had to be older version of the kids, right?” “Yeah, but really, her? I mean I want this money but her?” “We’ve established limits, now. Do you want to continue trying to get with a Violet type or should we try something like Augustus.” Drake shudders. “Jesus, no.” “American girls who chew gum incessantly are everywhere. Ones you can bring yourself to sleep with and who are of legal age, not so much. “What do we do, James?” “We’re going after an Augustus type. If we stumble into a Violet, we stumble into a Violet. Ever been to a fetish party?” “A what?” *** Drake steps out of the changing room and looks like a younger Greg Dulli during the 1965 album. “You look ready to kill, sir.” “You sure this is the only way?” “Yeah, this is. You’re looking for a gluttonous German. Gluttonous could be interpreted in many ways. He could be a food play fetishist. He could have a wife who has a girlfriend and they all play together. Does he have to be 100% German?” “Half or more.” “You’re gonna have to work that in somehow when you try to pick him up. I hope by now you know how to do that.” “I do.” “Good. One other thing: you are gonna have to do this one without me. This party makes you check your cellphone at the door to protect the privacy of the attendees. The last thing they want is pictures to get out. I had to call in a favor to get you in because they don’t trust strangers. We’re getting you tested, too. You have to have clean papers or else you don’t get to go in and you don’t play. Should I be concerned?” “No, you shouldn’t but how am I gonna prove that I did him without the cellphone?” “You are going to have to be so charming that he’ll want a private playdate. You’ll have to give a little to get more. This will require some long game. I hope you can juggle.” *** I’m sitting in my living room, a finger of Glenlivet swirling around in a glass, waiting for Drake’s call. Drake’s good at getting laid from a conventional standpoint. I see him a lot in the places I work, even had to run interference against him a couple of times. I’m wondering why his friends are doing this, if the money is real, if this isn’t some strange prank. I’m paid to ask questions but I’m wondering if I’m asking the right ones.

[prowingman-blog]

We've Got Nothing Better To Do

Finding someone like Mike Teavee wouldn’t be a challenge. Drake going all the way though is another story. “Why do we have to go after one of the guys next? Can’t we try for Violet or Veruca?” Drake moans, the Stella bottle shivering in his hand. “You read the contract. You knew what you were getting into. The Oompa Loompa terms of engagement only required skin color, not gender. This one, you have to find a boyish man obsessed with television. With any bet, you should do the stuff that repulses you first before you take it easy on yourself. Not saying guy on guy is repulsive, not at all, but you know what I mean.” Drake siphons the rest of the Stella. “Where to?” *** Bloom’s a bar for upscale men with upscale taste in men. I made Drake change into the best fake designer clothes he had to blend in. I watch him with a gin and tonic, looking at the bar calmly. “James, there’s something I need to tell you...” I hold up my hand. “Say no more. You were more freaked out about doing it again, weren’t you?” Drake nods. “It’s alright. Whatever you’re into is what you’re into as long you don’t hurt anyone. Our secret, got it?” Drake nods again. “Good. I haven’t found anyone yet boyish and obsessed with television. There’s not even a t.v. here.” I throw the Bluetooth to him. “Put this on and go get a drink at the bar. If I hear up something, I’ll text you.” Drake shimmies out of the booth, heads to the bar. *** “I can’t believe that motherfucker...” “Did you see Fast Five? That was awesome and The Rock, certainly not bad to... “...I watch Mad Men and I want to be so like Don Draper, rugged and mysterious...” <jdecaturprowingman> - the one who looks like he belongs in an ad agency in the 50’s is your guy. Do you know anything about Mad Men? <mandrakeman> - no <jdecaturprowingman> - i got this. Mad Men’s your in. will spoon feed you leads. *** Wikipedia and I are giving Drake the information to keep up with Mike Teavee’s obsession. He asks a question not covered in the Mad Men season two synopsis. I hear him flounder. <jdecaturprowingman> - time to drop the act. tell him you’ve been wikipediaing everything because you wanted an excuse to talk to him since he’s so cute. I watch Drake look up from the cell phone and talk to Mike. Mike laughs, touching Drake’s forearm, grazing toward his hand. In a couple of days, we’ll see if Drake has the stomach for gum.

[prowingman-blog]

Now That's The Ticket

Drake and I sit on one of the couches in this faux South Beach club, scanning the room. “You sure we can find what I need here,” Drake club whispers into my ear. I nod. Wannabe South Beach clubs are magnets for women painted tan. I didn’t believe Drake at first when he showed me the list of characters from Willie Wonka and The Chocolate Factory he had to sleep with in 30 days to win a $10,000 bet from his friends until he also produced a notarized contract. When Drake offered 10% of the winnings on top of my normal rate, I couldn’t refuse. We’re starting easy tonight with the Oompa Loompa. The light is bright enough for a second to where I see a woman with the right orange skin tone. “There she is,” I club whisper into Drake’s ear, pointing at the orange woman wearing a tight, white dress, and fuck-me-in-a-cheap-motel heels. “Is your Bluetooth headset working?” Drake nods. “Good. I’ll be listening in and texting road signs in the event you start veering off course, understood?” Drake gets up and heads over to the lukewarm creamiscle. He’s avoiding the usual openers (“are your eyes wells, because my inner child wants to be lost in them”) and having a conversation, his hand touching her forearm, her finger twirling her hair. When I see the Jagermeister shots in front of them, he’s on his way to punching his first golden ticket.

[prowingman-blog]

Put On An Argyle Sweater And A Smile

“The National is the music for life changes,” Mia says, carrying a cardboard box of her stuff to her car like its a precious piece of outsider art. A deep baritone voice comes out of the open front door assuring us that baby, we’ll be fine. Today, I’m the lookout, the property cock block preventing her ex from claiming more of her things and time. Mia and her friends remove boxes like teeth out of the house, placing them in the back of her wood paneled avocado station wagon. “Why isn’t this guy helping out,” the chubby one wearing a charcoal beret and a “vintage” Led Zepplin t-shirt two sizes too small for his gut moans. Mia gently elbows him. “He is, fucker.” My Blackberry buzzes in my pocket. I pick it out and look at the message.

just left. couldn’t distract him longer. heading to you. so sorry.

“Mia, how much more time are you going to need?” Mia puts down the box in her arms. “Twenty minutes, why?” “Brandon’s heading back now. From where the coffee shop is from here, he’ll be driving up in ten minutes. I can call in a favor but it’ll cost you.” “How much are we talkin’?” “A favor. You won’t know when or what it is but you have to do it when I ask for it. I promise it won’t put you in danger. Deal?” Mia crosses her arms, taps the stoop. “Eight minutes, Mia.” “Deal. Do what you have to do, James.” I text “calling in favor. traffic stop. Robinson & Bumby. look for black Vespa.” In two minutes, a beat cop I know will detain Brandon. By the time Brandon sputters into the driveway, Mia and her friends will be moving into her new friends. She won’t be sorry for anything.

[prowingman-blog]

Two Cherries & A Star

“You’re gay, aren’t you?” she asks, pulling on my arm like a slot machine. Even a woman as cute as her can’t pull off an opening gambit like that. “I’m not, actually. My girlfriend and I were just out of town together.” I show her the photo of my girlfriend and I smiling somewhere on the Mag Mile. “Oh come on, she’s just a friend. Oh well, what about that guy over there?” “He’s married. Don’t you ever look at a man’s left hand before checking him out?” She shakes her head. “Start. You’ll stay out of trouble that way.” Some friends, a couple of acquaintances, the gambler, and I walk over to a neighborhood bar for a couple of drinks and to shoot the shit. She ends up sitting next to me in our half moon booth, treating my left ear like a confessional. By the third drink, I know she kissed a girl and liked it, random Armenian men and free condoms powder burns of her self-destruction, a freshly souring ex sitting next to her. When she’s not paying attention, I take a photo on my Blackberry for my Pandora file. There are just some people that I’m not sure even Hope would take back.

[prowingman-blog]

Nothing Else Matters

Brent shows me a picture of his girlfriend on his phone, eyes like crowbars to the knees, a smile that you can tie yourself to a mast with. “I miss her, man.” I can see why. I’m helping Brent appreciate the comfortable isolation in drinking at the bar, watching the safari of breaking beer glasses, clumsy passes, and smoke from a safe distance. “Why not a booth?” “A person sitting in a booth alone is the Russian roulette of bar dwelling. You could get harassed. You could get hit on, especially if you’re a woman. No one bothers a guy sitting alone at the bar, except maybe for a random person or two trying to part you and the person sitting next to you in getting a drink. Sitting at the end reduces your chances of coughing up elbows or wearing your beer. Make sense?” Brent nods his head. “What else should I do?” I give Brent a quick up and down: ten o’clock shadow, beaten Metallica t-shirt, shorts, and plaid boat shoes. “Don’t ever look fuckable, but I think you’ve got that down.” “Hey! Naomi thinks I look sexy like this.” “Good. She supposed to since she loves you. Love is blind, even to this fashion autopsies like this. You could wear anything you want at home, y’know. It’s cheaper to drink alone.” “Yeah, but it’s also sad.” “Not in the right context.” Brent thinks, sips his beer, then nods. “I guess, but then I’d be climbing the walls at home, thinking about her.” I get where he’s coming from. Doing these wingman gigs help keep my mind off of her. I know our distance is temporary but it’s there. I try not to think about it; using Glenlivet like a lead pipe helps.

[prowingman-blog]

Directing Traffic

I’m watching Steve pace around the fountain in the park nervously. The supermarket carnation bouquet in his right fist sheds a petal here and there.   I haven’t done a green light/red light job like this in a long time, not since technology made the concept of blind dating a ghost story. “She’s really not into having her face on the Internet”, I remember Steve saying when describing the job over the phone.   I look around Steve for a moment and see a woman-like figure on a bench ten feet away, looking/not-looking at him just above today’s newspaper. The blind dater brought her own traffic signal to the party. “Just Can’t Get Enough” plays from her purse. The newspaper almost takes a swim. She hangs up, grabs her purse, and leaves. The traffic signal passes by a woman walking down the steps toward the fountain. The woman descending the staircase wears cat-eye sunglasses, a pretend beaten KISS t-shirt, and khaki Capris. She stops in front of Steve. When Steve hands her the bouquet, I press a button on my Blackberry to make it ring so I can pretend to take a call and walk away. I’m glad all lights are green.

[prowingman-blog]

In Your Eyes

I try talking Pete out of slipping thumb drives filled with mix play lists into women’s purses when they weren’t looking. “It’s what John Cuscak would do,” he says. “You mean Lloyd Dobbler.” “Who?” “Never mind. You realize you violated our agreement, right?” I have a fail safe in all of my contract: don’t listen to me, no refunds if you fail to get what you want. “You’re not here to help me get laid. You’re here to watch my back in the event...” His sentence trails off while I watch over Pete’s right shoulder a juiced up version of Dave Matthews stalking toward us, fists wound. I’m going to make sure only the first shot is free.

[prowingman-blog]

In Self Defense

Neil’s shoulders are as flat as his beer. “I don’t get it”, he says, “I did everything right this time.” I watch the swagger jacking in progress on his face, the stutter of his chin, his lower lip disappearing a little into his overbite. I remember how I survived my last swagger jacking: hair cut, treadmill, Jameson, treadmill, therapy, Jameson, treadmill. I have to thank Nancy for helping me realize I had a back like a staircase. At least this way, I get paid. I take the beer can out of Neil’s hands and toss it in the garbage. “You’ll get through this but you can’t treat a woman like a tire iron or a gun you can pull out to scare away a swaggerjacking. Right now, you’ve got carrion face. Let’s get out of here before the bar vultures pick you clean.”

[prowingman-blog]

Elemental

The science teacher I was about to wingman for gave me an index card. “As I approach a woman, I want you to text me your thoughts using what I’ve provided. This will let me know whether to continue or to fall back.” “I’m o.k. with that. May I make one suggestion?” “Yes.” I handed him an extra Bluetooth ear piece. “Put this in your shirt pocket. I’m gonna call you so I can also hear what you’re saying to the women I give a green light on. I’ll also use what’s on this card to rate how you’re doing. *** The first woman science approached got a “Ne” - loud in a bright, hollow way. The second “Pt” - looked too expensive and fragile for what science needed. The third “C” - had all the essentials but otherwise too boring. Science came back to my booth. “Is no one I pick good enough?” I slightly peered up at him from my Blackberry. “So far, no. I thought you were used to trial and error though.” Science tried withering me with a look. “Stop talking and get back out there.” Woman number four was “Fe” - solid, at first but then it became apparent as they talked she was more like “H”; I didn’t want science to get burned. “He” - flighty and airy was number five. I rated a woman sitting alone in the booth “Fe”. I pressed the Bluetooth into my ear to hear his opening: “Hi. Has anyone told you that your smile can split someone like an atom?” I almost sent him “U” for making that booth untouchable for one thousand years until her laughter cut through the chorus of “I’ve Got Friends In Low Places”. The squeal of wood came through my headset. I watched the booth to make sure no one would try swagger jacking science.