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

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