3’s The Magic Number
Long story short: For the first time in a long time, I’m single. In general I’d say I’m okay with it, though, let’s face it, life is just a hell of a lot easier when you have someone else watching your back—and on a permanent basis. I mean, sure, hookers can get you off, and you can hire homeless people to help carry your groceries or wash your car, but a girlfriend is great for those times when the fuckups you perpetrate are so utterly nonsensical and idiosyncratic that only someone who knows you intimately can even begin to reconstruct what the hell you were thinking—especially when whatever it was you were doing renders you veritably non compos mentis.
Now, I was planning on employing the same method I’d used to find all of my previous girlfriends: I’d just wait until I woke up next to somebody, and if she smelled okay, I’d make a go of it. However, while I was watching Oprah one afternoon I got a bit of a call to action from this young woman (whose name I’ve forgotten, though it might have been Millet. Or Miley.) who was castigating men for not approaching women in the “real” world anymore since cyberspace had pretty much taken over in that vain. She was saying that average Joes like myself would be amazed if only we’d approach hot women who, amazingly, were often just as lonely as we were—all for the lack of men who’d ask them out. Now, this isn’t new; in fact, it’s a fairly common refrain, one that I never really bought, but if it was good enough for Oprah, then hey…
So, not a few days later I was shopping at the Goodwill on Burnside when I spotted a good candidate. She was happy and healthy, nice smile, pert breasts and a noticeable enough paunch to ensure that she was approachable. I liked her. She had soul. She tried on second hand clothes as if she were in Paris getting ready to hit the runway. She was the Cinderella of the store, and the hunchbacked clerks all looked lovingly in her direction, all waited on her hand and foot, all moved quickly lest her Volkswagen turn back into a pumpkin before she could find the perfect pair of stretch pants.
In other words, she was a bona fide fashion victim, one of those folks you sometimes see around Portland for whom the line between second-hand, shabby chic and mildly retarded is irrevocably blurred. As I stood there watching her, it almost seemed she were two people—one a beautiful, rosy-cheeked young women utterly fucking cool and secure enough in her sexuality to go thrift shopping in a Joan Collins Dynasty gown with safety pins holding up the straps; the other, that lady you see getting off the bus at every stop and then realizing it’s the wrong one and then getting right back on, and all the while you’re thinking she’s not too bad and it’d probably not be too hard to talk her into a little of the old “how’s your father” in exchange for a few fig newtons or a shiny quarter.
In either case, it’d be a good experiment. If she were cool and turned me down, I could at least glean some future tips from her about what I might change or do differently. If she were retarded and turned me down, I could respond by taunting her to her face and she’d never know it.
So, I made my purchase, went out in the parking lot and waited in my car for her to emerge. When she finally did, I rolled down my window, dispensed with the whole “Excuse me” bit and the pleasantries and got right down to business: “You know, I’m a great bargain shopper.”
She looked up at me, seeming, for some reason, to take this as a challenge. “Yeah, me too.” Her eyes narrowed. And the smile was gone.
“Uh. Well, we should go together sometime. I can show you where to find the best worthless shit in town. Heh heh.”
Bingo. She softened. “Tee hee hee.”
“Whadda ya say?”
“Boyfriend.”
“What’s your man gotta do with me?”
“Tee hee.”
“Really. Let me show you the ropes.”
“Actually, I’ve got two boyfriends right now.”
“Ah ha. That’s new.”
“No, I do.”
“So who’s to say three’s not the magic number?”
So, rather than just laughing off the suggestion, as I assumed she would, she actually stopped and thought about it. Put her head down for a second, came back up.
“Well…I guess you’re right.”
“Of course I am, dear.”
“Tee hee.”
“I can show you the world for $2.99.”
“All right. Don’t go overboard.”
“Hmm. Yes. Sorry.”
“All right, then. Let’s see what you got.” She approached my car. She was prettier up close. Nice eyes and mouth. Faint hint of mothball smell.
“Well, today was really more of a scouting trip. I like to stay abreast of the inventory.”
“No, come on. I saw you leave with a bag. Hand it over.”
“Ah, hmm.” I picked up the bag from the passenger seat. Held it in my lap. “Really, this isn’t indicative…”
“All right, just…” She snatched it away from me. Stuck her face in it.
As it just so happens, my purchase that day consisted of:
* A chart of the human muscular-skeletal system
* The popular children’s game “Operation.”
* Four kitchen knives, and
* Two pairs of plastic kitchen gloves.
Needless to say, she split. In a hurry. Still, her generally positive reaction was enough encouragement for me to give it at least one more try. And try I did, at the Gay Pride Parade. In retrospect, perhaps it wasn’t the best venue, but I still had fun, and managed to score a date with a person called Rikki, who is a volunteer fireman and sells Amway. It should be fun/a good business opportunity.
Hello, very nice, good Luck!