A Thousand Tiny Failures : Memoirs of a Pickup Artist by Tony D

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