by Wild Man, aka George Palczynski
Once Upon A Time I Was A PUA… Once, Kinda
What is a PUA? A PUA is a pick up artist; the envy of schlubs the world over. What is a schlub? A schlub is a male human who routinely trips over his tongue and most anything else when in proximity to a girl with distinctly girlish features… i.e., pretty. In other words, the PUA and the Schlub are on opposing terminals of a great lineal near cosmic spectrum. Where am I on the spectrum? Somewhere in that great place that’s called “the middle”. I insist it’s the middle nearer PUA. If anyone has reason to insist that assessment takes liberties with reality… keep it to yourself.
The following is based on actual events. Where memory does not well preserve the dialogue, it meticulously preserves the essence:
The place is crowded. A handsome female sits alone at a generous table for two. Twenty minutes later – status quo ante. I’m standing. I don’t mind standing. I am a young enough buck. I could strike a pose with the best of them – power, strength, elegance, and grace.
Aside: Bear with me. I claim, here, dramatic license. It’s my experience, my story, my memory, my perception, my finer points. Deal with it as best you can without resorting to speculative ornery dubiety… all right?
But I will not lead you astray. Let’s work backwards. I had grace… …when I was not moving. When I moved I was not clunky/awkward but… nearer them than graceful. To look upon me for the first magnificent moment, the better part of the population would have bet this bloke had it – grace. I hadn’t; just looked it. Mind, I was not a bumbler/stumbler. I could successfully dodge the furniture with seeming aplomb, but I could not dance on and around it like Astaire and Ginger.
Elegance! Yeeeaaah… …not so much; even though it didn’t require movement. I would cut a better figure in coat and tie than anything casual – but… but that’s true of most any guy; and I wasn’t wearing a coat and tie. It’s a bar with a big screen TV, a big ball game and happy drunks… and it was still morning. Power, strength, yeah, no sham there; it was unmistakable, though, not Promethean.
So, there I was, a mixed bag… and didn’t any of what was in that bag appear to be Adonis. So, there again, the record – stripped down to the truth. Now for the tale that’s as true.
To The Chase
I saunter over to the table for two with two sturdy chairs and the one handsome woman.
WM: Might I sit down… my name’s George?
Her: There must be an empty seat somewhere.
WM: Maybe, but none have you sitting next to it.
Her: (LOOK-THINK… near imperceptible eye-roll) SILENCE.
Aside: My Brain Churns Wildly! In all of a nanosecond, the following crosses my mind:
“CRAP! Did I just say that!… WTF man… Get IT THE FUCK TOGETHER!… Holy and cripes sake!… STOP doing David Niven!”
This was so unlike me, so alien, so out of character, so peculiar, so queer, so freaky-creepy… …but… I got my share of cool too… forgot to mention that.
WM: Look, I got a slightly bum leg – honest. I’ll leave soon as your friend shows… and drinks, on me.
Her: (with a slapdash flash of reluctance): Why not?
WM: (waves over waitress) What’ll you have?
WM: What’s that?
Her: Shot of Drambuie in a cup of coffee and whip cream on top.
WM: What’s Drambuie?
Her: You never heard of Drambuie?
WM: Heard the name – don’t know what it is.
Her: Scotch and honey liqueur.
WM: (to waitress): Make that two. (to HER) sounds interesting… What’s your name?
WM: Here for the game I take it.
WM: What’ll we talk about over the Drambuies?
Her: Must we?
WM: It’s that or awkward silence.
Her: I’m okay with that.
WM: Yeah right.
Her: Yeah right.
WM: You’ll regret it.
WM: Yeah, all sorts of regrets.
Her: I doubt it.
WM: No one can resist being curious of a stranger. You’ll wonder tonight… hmm… was he rich, or, a cool guy, or… could he blow a mean trumpet?… might…
WM: There yah go – icebreaker! It’s on Carol.
Her: What’s on?
WM: We’re on. We’re gonna talk – not sit here like strangers, afraid the other’ll bite. Women always want to talk… talk.
Her: About what?
WM: Whatever. No limits. Anything.
Her: You start.
WM: Okay… what’s your favorite color?
Her: (another demure eyeroll… and some strange indecipherable sound nasally emitted – a ‘snort’!?!)
WM: Wait now. Before your eyes roll out of your head, I have first to tell you what your favorite color is by whatever means – guess, educated guess, deduction, induction… prayer…
Her: You swear this is a game?
WM: I swear it. When it’s your turn, you’ll ask me something and then tell me what you expect I’d say… capeesh?
WM: So… what’s your favorite color? I say it’s… …green.
Her: How did you get that?
WM: Your scarf has long swirls of dusky green. The thing hanging from your neck has a green stone of some kind… emerald? So… both your highlights are green, so… green!
Her: It’s green. And it’s not an emerald.
WM: Hah! Great, I’m up one. Your turn.
Her: Okay… What’s… your… favorite… … …lady part?
WM: I don’t blush easy… …and you’d say it was…
Her: Oh, forgot. Your favorite is… … …the breasts.
WM: Why so?
Her: I caught you looking.
WM: Looking at the pendant.
Her: That’s probably a lie.
WM: Now, you don’t know me well enough to tell if I’m lying… and… I won’t lie to you.
Her: It’s not the breasts?
Her: What then?
WM: My favorite Lady Part is the philtrum.
Her: The WHAT?
WM: Philtrum. p-h-i-l-t-r-u-m
Her: That’s not a thing.
WM: You mean, you, a grown woman, don’t know what your philtrum is?
Her: You’re making it up.
WM: you mean to say, you a grown woman, had never had a guy compliment your philtrum? You poor neglected….
Her: You made it up.
WM: I told you I wouldn’t lie and I haven’t.
Her: Okay. What is it?
WM: Tell you what. Let me touch yours. …just for the purpose of pointing it out to you.
WM: REALLY! Right here with everyone around?
Her: Sure. I trust you.
WM: You have a page on me written already… or… you’re just hoping?
Her: It’s a feeling, my feelings are usually right.
WM: Okay, I need to get close to you, and I’ll need you to close your eyes.
Her: (Closes her eyes)
WM: (waiting seconds… puts finger gently onto the valley between her nose and upper lip).
Her: (Opens her eyes) That’s a philtrum?
WM: Yes, and yours is near exceptionally…
Her: So help me, if you’re making this up, I’ll…
WM: I told you I wouldn’t lie to you, and I haven’t.
Her: Why is my philtrum…
WM: (interrupting) it insinuates itself onto your upper lip and curls it up and out. Gives your lips the cupid’s bow shape guys like.
Her: You think maybe you have a little too much interest about such things?
WM: I have to.
WM: That’s my realm of expertise.
Her: What are you an expert on… women?
WM: Hardly. I’m an expert on pretty… cute, and beautiful.
Her: Now that’s a lie.
WM: Is not. It’s a boast, there’s a difference. Guys ought never lie, they must always boast – it’s a genetic imperative.
Her: You are so… … …
WM: What, what?
Her: Full of it.
WM: That’s an evasion.
Her: That was nonsense… ge-net-ic.
WM: What is it when the male of the species fans his tail, splays his feathers, sings his chirps, or thumps his chest?
Her: I don’t know.
WM: They’re ALL manners of boasting. My fan’s greater than his; my feathers brighter, my chirps happier, and my thumps harder than his… BOASTING
Her: (long silence)… And your favorite part is the… philtrum?
WM: (humongous smile – VICTORY!) Yes.
Her: Hard to believe.
WM: But true, entirely… and I couldn’t imagine explaining it to anyone’s satisfaction – even my own. But it’s the first thing I notice on women – not lying.
The clock and I made it noon. It may as well have struck midnight. Her friend showed. He was not a boyfriend – he hadn’t an edge to him. My first thought – I could take him – easy, (unless he knew some of that jujitsu shit).
I excused myself immediately. Carol made all the right noises about staying, joining them. I had a previous engagement – friends that had invited me. She bid me wait a second and wrote something on a table napkin – handed it to me – it was a phone number. I requited in kind and borrowed her pen to do so. No problem. I was feeling not a little ‘damn good’ handing it to her and walking away without another word between us.
Aside: Not one moment’s calculation. The natural ebb and flow of girl and guy as it had been ordained ‘in the beginning’. The closest I’d ever been to a PUA, and it had all the good vibrations of pure intentions and not one iota of the craft of cunning.
Life was good that day.
By the by: the home team won the big game.