My name is James. My friends call me Jim. The year is 2006. I'm twenty-six years old, well educated and last year landed a stellar job with a huge, national corporation in New York City. Actually, the company prefers to call it a position rather than a job. After only a year, my hard work and master's degree in Information Technology, got me promoted to project manager for one of the corporation's new initiatives. I now manage six other people who do most of the work and that leaves me some freedom in scheduling my time. Since I'm single and unattached, I'm frequently in the office late in the evenings and on weekends but I compensate with long lunches and an occasional day off during the week.
I live in a small, but large for New York, apartment in the East Village where I can take the F train from Washington Square to 57th street and 6th Avenue - a short walk to my office. My rent-controlled apartment costs embarrassingly little and my salary is stupidly large, so, even after maxing out my 401K and saving even more on the side, I have too much disposable income that funds a rich nightlife. I spend a portion of most evenings at one or another singles' bar prowling for single women.
I'm not very good at pick up conversation so most evenings I go home early and alone. Except on weekends. On weekends I'm determined to get laid so I hang in for the duration. That means on most Friday or Saturday nights I'm one of the two-am'ers. That is, when the bar closes at two am, I'm usually one of the few unpaired, and slightly impaired, customers. That is, me and one or two others, one of which is usually a woman. With few other choices, and the bar serving the last round, some woman, as unsuccessful as I, and I wander off into the night and one of our apartments. These liaisons are not very fulfilling but they take the edge off. One of us usually leaves in the middle of the night to go to our own apartment. If we're unlucky enough to wake up together as the sun rises, we handle the difficult, and sometimes embarrassing, situation politely and part before breakfast. I have been offered a morning screw, which I accepted, although I don't think I'll do it again.
Over time, I've been taking long lunches on Wednesdays. Wednesday is the middle of the workweek and a long lunch seems perfect as a halftime activity. On Wednesday, I usually walk over to 7th avenue and one of the semi-famous delis between 52nd and 56th streets. On a clear warm spring day, I walked to the Stage Deli for lunch. They know me there and I got a seat quickly at a table barely large enough for one person, with two chairs, in the front next to the windows. The second chair was filled before I could take my first bite of a dill pickle from the bowl on the table.
The fellow who sat down across from me was about my age and dressed nicely in a tweed sports jacket and dark blue shirt open at the collar. The combination worked well with the jeans and running shoes he was wearing. Since we were destined to share the table for lunch, I thought it proper to introduce myself.
"Hey, I'm Jim," I said as I offered my hand to shake.
"Michael, you can call me Michael," he responded as he shook my hand.
The waiter climbed over several chairs and a couple of customers, to get to our table and take our orders. It was a trip I suspected he didn't want to make again so I ordered pastrami on rye and a Heineken. The sandwich is expensive but large enough that I'd take half home for supper. Michael ordered chicken soup and water.
While we waited for our food, we discussed important world events such as the Yankees potential and yesterday's rain. Before our food came, we got around to introducing ourselves further. Michael was in advertising and had walked over from Madison Avenue, about a half-mile walk. While eating we confirmed we were the same age and single. Michael lived in Brooklyn, a short ride on the A train to Manhattan. We knew many of the same watering holes but had never seen each other before. We parted amiably.
Two weeks later, I again walked over to the Stage Deli for lunch. As I approached the door, I saw Michael waiting on the line outside. I tapped him on the shoulder and motioned for him to follow me. I led him inside where the manager recognized me and led us to a table in the center of the room very close to a similar table occupied by couple in their fifties and obviously from out of town.
I guess my connection with the management impressed him since Michael was more talkative than on our previous lunch. I ordered the pastrami sandwich again and changed to a Dr. Brown's cream soda to drink. Michael ordered the chicken soup again and upgraded to unsweetened iced tea. Our conversation moved quickly from sports and weather to our experiences as single men in New York City. We commiserated about the quality and availability of single women and frustration with trying to get laid often enough. Throughout, the elderly man at the next table seemed to be attentive to our conversation, occasionally nodding in agreement. His wife, I assumed it was his wife, scowled at him and threw disapproving stares in our direction.
I did my best to ignore the woman's scorn, as the conversation was compelling. I didn't know if Michael was any more successful than I, but he exuded a confidence I wished I had. Sometime after the old woman and her escort left, Michael and I agreed to meet at a downtown pub and "meet" market on Friday night where we could compare our techniques and maybe get lucky.
We both struck out on Friday night and I dragged Michael to my apartment where he sacked out on the sofa while I slept it off in the only bedroom. In the morning, I went down to the nearby bodega and picked up some danish and a quart of orange juice. When I returned, Michael looked as if he had washed his face and combed his hair while I was gone. More importantly, he had the coffee maker dripping away.
Over breakfast, we reviewed last night's activities with a focus on what worked and what didn't. Nothing worked, so we focused on the negatives. Michael took the lead in the discussion. He was clear about our, especially my, futile attempts. By his count, I got shot down no less than six times while he experienced moderate success with one slender brunette for almost thirty minutes until her boy friend arrived. After that, he just observed.
I was transfixed as Michael analyzed my evening. He suggested that he rarely failed so spectacularly. He offered stories about his successes, many of which stretched my imagination, but his telling of them was so detailed that I believed them all. I can't do any of them justice so I asked Michael to write one of them down for me. I'm sure he will include more detail than he shared with me.
* * * * *
My name is Michael. You can call me Michael. James and I have spent most of the morning discussing the New York singles scene and his spectacular failures in landing women for an evening's entertainment. New York is one of the easiest places to meet women. In general, at the extremes, there are two distinct meeting locales with graduations in between. The first is the local pub or sports bar. The women you will find in these establishments are out for a good time and want to meet someone, even for a single evening. They're single, working women or college coeds. They're usually overly made up with simple, casual hairdos. For the evening, they're wearing short, tight skirts or dresses with loose tops from fashion stores at a local mall and comfortable shoes. They're adorned with costume jewelry, and carry large handbags with their phones, a wallet with id and enough money for a taxi home, a makeup touchup kit, condoms, and a clean pair of panties for the morning after.
The men are dressed in t-shirts or tank tops, jeans and canvas shoes or work boots. They may have shaved after work but not necessarily and many forgot to comb their hair. They pass the time playing pool or darts until they find their target for the evening.
At the other extreme are the clubs. The women in the clubs are professional women, including escorts. They're also overly made up but their hair is professionally done. They're also wearing tight clothing but from known designers and shoes with names. Their jewelry is real and their purses are small, barely large enough to hold a phone, id and the necessary makeup touchup kit. They expect the gentlemen they meet to buy the drinks and have his own condoms and they don't carry spare panties since they don't wear any.
The men wear casual slacks with a golf shirt and casual shoes. Some wear suits with open collared dress shirts, no tie and wing tips. Some wear sports jackets, jeans and loafers without socks. All have carefully trimmed, three day old, facial hair. Their hair is neat and many of them showered before going out.
In either venue, the usual male approach is as a supplicant. The short form of the conversation is, "Hi, my name is ... Can I buy you a drink and take you home with me tonight?" Given this kind of power, even the least attractive woman can afford to be choosy, at least until the bar closes.
That's the approach James uses and, based on the need of the women he approaches, sometimes it works, but not usually.
The problem, as I see it, is not the approach but the venue and the timing. In every one of these places, the rules of the game are clearly spelled out and known by all. The women are expecting to be approached and propositioned and they're all on guard, careful not to accept the wrong invitation. The men are forced to into their role if they want to play and not leave alone at closing time.
